Helmshore: Under the Pie Crust

27th November 2025

Do you ever wonder why British people talk about the weather so much? I suspect it’s because, despite living in a relatively temperate corner of the world, we’re denied the luxury of predictability. In many countries you can assume summer will be warm and winter will be cold. Here, we have no such certainty. Today will almost certainly bear no resemblance to yesterday — and this week has proved that perfectly.

The week began in an early winter wonderland. Helmshore woke beneath a thick frost, and as the sun crept over the hills the whole valley seemed to glow. Golden light spilled across the fields, catching the last of the autumn colours — red, amber, and burnished orange — all glittering under a clear blue sky.

On Wednesday morning, the lower Musbury Valley was completely white, the cold air pooled between the steep hillsides. I regretted not wearing an extra layer as the chill seeped through my clothes and stung my face while Pepper and I crunched our way home.

In the afternoon the usual peace of Helmshore was shattered! Walking along Holcombe Road, we witnessed a savage murder outside the Robin Hood: a pigeon plucked straight from the air and being enthusiastically disassembled at the roadside.

The culprit fled as we approached, but we caught a glimpse of him retreating to the trees — a striking fellow in striped clothing, grey hoodie, and yellow shoes. (I believe the official name for such a chap is “sparrowhawk,” but he certainly looked like he’d just legged it from a crime scene.)

Further on, a heron stood fishing on the river, utterly still despite the fast-flowing water, patient as a monk awaiting revelation.

In the evenings, the darkness has brought a different kind of spectacle. The sky cleared completely, revealing a brilliance you only get on the coldest nights — billions of tiny stars set against a velvet-black sky. I paused for a moment on the lane, breath fogging in the sharp cold, feeling wonderfully small beneath that celestial sweep.

Thursday morning arrived darker than usual. Pepper and I set off at our regular time, but the gloom felt thicker, the light slower to wake. I’ve been trying to vary my morning walks — I adore the Musbury route, but I often take it on autopilot, ignoring Pepper’s daily plea to take the shorter, much steeper path up the Tor. Yesterday, as we walked down the valley, I glanced up to see a lone figure silhouetted atop the rockface, watching the sunrise from the very place Pepper had wanted to go. I felt a twinge of regret.

So this morning, I gave in and let her lead. In the darkness we climbed the cobbled path past Tor Side Farm, then scrambled up to what I call “The Tor Shoulder,” following the ridge to the eastern edge for sunrise.

But as we reached the top, the truth behind the morning gloom revealed itself: the entire valley lay beneath a thick blanket of cloud, turning the world a muted, eerie blue. And the sunrise — usually so spectacular — was nowhere to be found.

Rossendale is rimmed with flat-topped hills: Cribden to the north, Thirteen Stones and Grane to the west, Bull Hill and Holcombe Moor to the south, Scout Moor and Cowpe to the east. Nestled between them, the valley develops a microclimate all of its own — damp, cloud-hugging, and once perfect for powering the cotton mills. Drive along the M66 and, whatever the weather is doing elsewhere, you’ll often see us under what locals call the Pie Crust: a low, stubborn lid of cloud. This morning, that pie crust was firmly in place, swallowing the sunrise whole.

We lingered for a moment on the ridge, listening to the muffled quiet of a valley hidden from the light, before heading back down to start the working day.

Weeks like this remind me why the British are such devoted students of the sky. Our weather is never still, never routine; it can dazzle, bite, surprise, or confound from one hour to the next. And in those shifts — frost to fog, gold to grey, sunrise to cloud — there’s a quiet wonder. Even the dark nights offer their own reward: a celestial canopy of billions of stars, glittering against a velvet sky while your breath hangs white in the frozen air. Some days give you sunrise; some nights give you the universe..