Malham Cove - spring.

For miles as we approach, we can see Malham Cove rising out of the green rolling landscape like a stony dam. Its mineral brightness jars with the mellow Dale's landscape and I feel a thrill at being able to see our destination before we arrive, like a first glimpse of the sea when headed for the coast. The weather is kind, as it has been for days - the sun mostly winning through the cloud.

Our picnic is finished swiftly in the boot of the car and we set off slowly, the children dreamy and playful. There are gloomy predictions from the man of the family about ever reaching the top of the cove 'at this rate'. But I know these boys of mine - we are daily adventurers together and I can see that they are just limbering up and getting into their stride. We pass perfectly polite blue-grey Dale's cottages clothed in wisteria and delphiniums, surrounded by genteel green fields and leafy oaks. Like pictures from another time they stir in me a strange familiarity, perhaps in childhood I dreamed of standing at similar doors in similar gardens; belonging in this gently rural place.

The main footpath up to the cove is busy with folk as we join it. Monty skips and jumps, full to the brim with child-simple joy - shouting to all who'll listen, 'I like dogs!'. I'm not sure if he's trying to get people to let him pet their dog or whether he's just enjoying the game - but it's interesting to observe some people smiling with him, whilst others look away. Eli seems out of sorts so I point out to him the wobbly silver lines of dry stone walls snaking across the hills, some now no more than fallen and heaped rubble, bleached by centuries of exposure. He looks and nods but he can't seem to shake his subdued mood until he sees some water. The stream that burbles at the bottom of the flat approach to the cove is shallow and inviting and the boys wade and paddle their way upstream towards the sheer face of the cove, little legs pink with stinging cold. Jackdaws sit in gnarled, still-bare ash trees at the water's edge.

We stop to chat with a couple whose teenage children are chasing their dog through the water; the parents look wistfully at Monty and talk of how quickly time passes. I can see watching him play they miss little voices and limbs; my thoughts fall forward to a time too soon approaching and I can't help but wish that just sometimes we could all slow the bitter-sweetness of growing children.

Walking on, we find that just before the cove the RSPB have set up a viewing station for spotting peregrine falcons high up on a treacherous ledge. The man tells us they are being shy today but when I step to the telescope I see a bright eye, a beak and a turning wing, 'I see him!' I shout, and turn excitedly to see doubtful faces; perhaps they think I am mistaken or lying. They come to look but he is gone - I keep looking for a while longer, fruitlessly hoping to catch another glimpse of the elusive raptor.

We start to ascend the long stone staircase to the top of the cove; the rocks are slippy and worn and I worry for the boys who are racing each other up and up. I worry too for my sprained and swollen ankle, still tender and delicate - making me move slowly, like someone older, forced into frailty. I wonder whether you can measure sprightliness by the staircases you can climb? These giant steps are impressive, made of hefty rocks and slabs. It must have taken so much strength, time and commitment from people who had probably been volunteers - lending their limbs and spirits to lift and perfectly place one stone after another to make the high limestone pavement accessible instead of muddy and dangerous. As I climb higher, able to see further and further, I silently thank these willing strangers.

At the top, we can't see how to proceed. It takes a moment or two to adjust to this strange landscape, I hobble over the treacherous surface, scared again for my ankle and for the little legs clambering beside mine. But children are mostly sure-footed, having not yet learned to mistrust their bodies, their confidence often keeps them safe. I look into the gullies, searching the grikes between the slabs for plant life - remembering in The Wild Places, Robert McFarlane and Roger Deakin on their bellies in Ireland - peering into the fertile life of the gully, finding wild worlds in miniature. I'm not sure it's quite like that here, perhaps the crisp packets and plastic bottles distract me from the plant life, although I do spot some wood sorrel, herb Robert and stunted ash saplings amongst the ferns. It's hard not to compare these rocks with bones - long spines of ridged rock, each knobbly clint a vertebra or a knuckle. Teeth too point up from the surface - a true dinosaur graveyard for little minds ready to make stories and see monsters. There is a kind of magic in the contrast between the green tufts pushing between the bony platelets of the stone, all suspended on this high platform beneath the clouds, above the valley.

Monty treads carefully beside me, holding my hand. A family passes anxiously with a dog, his paws clattering and slipping on the rippling stone. I point them to safer ground and notice the parents looking wistfully at Monty, they gesture towards their own children and joke about big boys and big smelly feet. They miss cute, they say; and I understand...I am to treasure these moments, remember this day.

The Big Smoke

There's something about the idea of so many people living in one place, closely packed together but largely unconnected, that makes me feel overwhelmed. Just the logistics of how all of those people move around the city every day without large amounts of disaster and trauma baffles me.

I can get quite anxious when I start to think about the consumption that happens here. I don't just mean the unrelenting temptation to spend money, but the simple things like a carton of milk...how on earth are dairy farmers managing to produce enough milk for all those millions of people? What is happening to all that plastic? Is it even possible to feed this many people ethically? My ideas and beliefs about how we need to live smaller, closer to the land and to each other seem somewhat naive in the face of such complexity and scale.

Because of this, I generally approach visits to London with some trepidation. One of my oldest friends lives here with her family and seeing them is reason enough to brave the journey but since having children I have found little pleasure in the city's other offerings. It always seems to take an age to get anywhere, a long walk at best, an assortment of buses and undergrounds at worst. The boys are usually exhausted and emotional before lunchtime, and by the end of the day I've joined them in a chorus of despair.

But this time, something different happened. Something surprising and affirming. Maybe it was because the boys were a little older; maybe it was because they had their scooters so that long walks became fast and fun; maybe it was managing a significant trip across town with the boys on my own with no tears; maybe it was the sunshine; or perhaps it was just a growing sense of familiarity...but I genuinely enjoyed my stay.

I'm starting to understand that without big cities, there's no big architecture, big mass gatherings of people, or really big ambitious, seemingly impossible, ideas. It's been said before but London really is the universe in a nutshell; pavements full of the pounding feet of people from all nationalities, ages and social backgrounds, buildings that beggar belief, movement and action, history and knowledge. I am so grateful that my children will be familiar with this place, confident with the mayhem and the scale

And this time, on the way to Highbury play park - I realised that London's parks are everywhere. From the wide sweeping vistas of Hyde Park to the little greens hidden at the hearts of the various villages that make up this city. These parks are full of incredibly old and noble trees; their branches filling the sky whilst their relinquished leaves fill up the pavements. Places to stop and breath, to rest the eyes and restore the spirit.

As my two very energetic children will also attest, London's parks surely contain the very best play equipment in the land.

I have a feeling this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Flowers and firearms

Our week has been a little wobbly. Tiredness and the realisation for Monty that he is is really away from me when he goes to Kindergarten has left us more emotional than usual. We're trying to be gentle with ourselves, but it isn't easy with two boys who find it hard to be anything other than maximum strength. 

Despite our disarray we did manage to visit a little local museum this week. I'd spotted in a flyer that Bankfield museum in Halifax was holding an exhibition of textiles on the theme of gardens which I was keen to see. I imagined conversations with Eli about the artist's processes; materials and techniques used. I thought we might marvel together at the stitches used liked brush strokes and hoped it  would inspire us to run home and start our own creative project...

I pointed out the journey from photographs, to sketches and finally stitches. We looked at how some of the pieces were layered with sewn fabrics behind screen printed transparent cloth. I enthused over the botanical motifs and impressionistic effects...

Meanwhile, Eli was tugging on my arm, desperately trying to stay patient...because what he was interested in,  what he really wanted to look at...was the Duke of Wellington's regiment museum.

Dutifully, and with little enthusiasm I allowed myself to be lead to look at cases filled with uniforms and weaponry. Along with my discomfort at us being surrounded by the apparel and apparatus of war, I realised my knowledge of battle history was severely lacking. Now I was on shaky ground. I didn't have answers to the questions being asked of me. Waterloo? What was all that about again? American wars? Erm...let me see...

I did manage some vague mutterings about the trenches and we both enjoyed looking at various soldier's personal effects - what they ate from, the bags they carried - the everyday objects that remind us of their humanity rather than the violence they were embroiled in.

Learning together may not always be what I expect it to be. Although I set the agenda for our museum visit, and had my own expectations about what we might explore together, Eli had his own ideas. Those ideas meant that I looked at things I wouldn't otherwise have looked at. I found I was interested in some of those things and I found that when it comes to history I am pretty much clueless.

Time for a trip to the library I think...

Beautifully bizarre

Yes, this is a Two Post Day! As well as stating my intentions for being a little more environmentally responsible this coming week I also wanted to share two of our favourite events of the Calderdale calendar that happened this past weeken - the Norland Scarecrow festival and the Sowerby Bridge Rushbearing. We've attended both of these quirky local practices over the last three years and I'm hooked on the sense of place and community I get when in the midst of them.

The Norland Scarecrow festival has been running every year for 13 years and the people of the village are showing no signs of letting their scarecrow standards drop. This year's theme was celebrations and people's interpretations of this ranged from the Olympics to the anniversary of the Beatles first single. We really needed the whole day to walk the full route and discover all the scarecrows but in our few hours there the boys managed to still spot plenty of curious creations in fields, on driveways or cunningly attached to houses.

We managed to squeeze in a couple of rides...

...before driving down one hill and up another to catch up with the Rushbearing procession. The boys and I jumped out of the car to run behind the procession, getting giddy with drumming and morris people. We managed to pass the procession as it stopped at St Mary's church in Cottonstones and hurried on to wait for the cart at the next stop, the Alma Inn.

From the Alma Inn we witnessed the stirring sight of the rushbearers pulling the rush-cart over the bridge and up the hill - the sound of 120 clogs striking the ground in time making my pulse quicken.

I so enjoy the atmosphere of this day - it's a little off-beat but feels so solidly English with its associated mummers, morris dancers and beer. This version of the rushbearing was revived in 1977 but its roots go back much further to 1685 or perhaps even earlier. It's believed that when the rushes on the floor of the area's churches were changed at the end of the summer a local tradition grew up around the practice. A fair maiden now bravely sits atop the rush-cart and all the bearers are kept well topped up at each stop with sustaining tankards of ale.

Whilst the cart is stopped the crowd is entertained by an assortment of folk dancers, musicians and a few crazy blokes with blacked up faces who perform an entertaining if somewhat baffling piece of historic pantomine.

Finishing off the Alma Inn leg of the journey were the splendid 400 Roses - they belly dance to morris music! These wonderfully decorative women do for folk dancing what Hasselhoff did for lifeguards... Their dress is ornate and unapologetic; age nor shape seem to be any impediment to moving their hips in a most marvellous manner. The amount of effort that had gone into those costumes and carefully choreographed dance was quite lovely to see.

Yorkshire. In't it grand?

Parading

Drum roll...fanfare...and 'Ta-Daa!', the 2012 Hebden Bridge Handmade Parade finally had its day. There was all the usual chaos, craziness and last-minute creating as a host of magical woodland creatures gathered together excitedly, waiting to be let loose upon the ordinary townsfolk of this 'quiet' Pennine town. Crowds a-plenty turned out, smiling encouragement all along our route, waving and cheering, cameras clicking. Oh it felt good, after the week of soggy troubles Hebden has had, to be all together, paraders and spectators enjoying a moment of sunny reprieve.  

Wearing a big backpack of sparkly black and white branches and skeletal seed head shapes I was deep in the winter, surrounded by the striking and spookily beautiful. We had owls, an enormous wild boar and a pack of howling wolves on scooters, followed by a crowd of voodoo folk and skeletons. This young wolf was on foot and held tightly to my hand throughout.

I pointed my camera upwards and caught some blue sky, fluffy clouds and odd bits of my costume...

As always, the talent and enthusiam on display was amazing. In the workshops you catch glimpses of the bigger pieces but it's only when they're out there in the world that you can fully appreciate their maker's magic. There is so much to wonder at and admire...I had a moment of wishing I could be in the watching crowds, seeing the carnival of colour pass by, catching every detail of every costume, each one lovingly conceived of and created by the wearer.

My little woodland warrior was very much in the spirit of the occasion, marching and dancing and acting his part with real commitment, loving every second.

Of course the rain had to fall eventually but not until after most of the after-parade acts had performed and we'd all patted ourselves on the back for a job well done. It would have been great to have spent the afternoon in the park sitting in the sun with our friends and neighbours but in the end, we can't complain - nobody rained on our parade.