Helmshore: Between Snowflakes and Sunday lunch

Helmshore, March 15th

Friday delivered an unexpected twist on the weather front. Pepper and I stepped out into snow flurries — fat, determined flakes swirling in the cold morning air. The wind, at least, had dropped, but the temperature had not followed its lead. It was sharp enough to sting the cheeks and remind us that winter had not quite surrendered.

The hills were shrouded under a low snow cloud, barely visible beyond the Tor, so we sensibly avoided the higher ground and chose an older, lower route instead — down through Snig Hole and into Irwell Vale. I haven’t walked this way since last summer, and even under a wintery sky it felt like a small rediscovery.

There is something reassuring about returning to a familiar path after an absence. The river was full and purposeful, sliding past its moss-darkened stones with quiet authority. The trees along its banks still stood largely bare, their branches etched against the pale sky, but there were hints of change if you looked closely — tight buds, the faintest blush of green.

We paused at Little Blackpool, a bend in the river where the water gathers itself after spilling over the weir. It’s a place that always feels slightly apart from the rest of the valley — enclosed, self-contained. The water ran fast and white over the lip of the weir, its constant rush filling the cold air. Even in snow flurries, it has a kind of contained wildness to it; not dramatic, not vast, but quietly insistent.

From there we followed the river back towards home, the path soft beneath our boots. The banks were thick with wild garlic — lush, green and abundant despite the cold snap. It gathers in such generous swathes here that it almost feels cultivated rather than wild. Soon enough, the air will carry its unmistakable scent. A little further along the valley lies Ramsbottom that carries the nod to this pungent plant: the name “Ramsbottom” itself is often said to derive from the Old English for “valley of wild garlic.” Whether entirely accurate or gently romanticised, it feels right when you stand amongst it, green blades pushing defiantly through the cold.

Even under a sky that could not quite decide between winter and spring, the valley felt alive — waiting, perhaps, but very much awake.

Saturday brought a welcome change. The skies cleared, the wind softened, and the valley settled into one of those crisp, luminous spring days that feel like a reward after unsettled weather. In the afternoon Pepper and I wandered the familiar trails around Helmshore. The air had that clean brightness that only follows a cold snap, and everything felt newly sharpened — the colours, the sounds, the sense of the valley waking up again.

The rest of the day was spent more domestically, preparing for Sunday’s gathering. By evening the kitchen had become a small production line as ingredients were chopped, sauces simmered, and plans laid for the Mother’s Day feast to come.

Sunday morning began early. Pepper and I set off for a quick walk up to Musbury, hoping to steal an hour outside before the day’s hosting began. The previous day’s calm had clearly been temporary. After my years of walking the valley in all seasons, you would think I would know better — but halfway up the path I realised I had badly misjudged the conditions. The wind cut straight through my coat, sharp and relentless, while Pepper’s ears were repeatedly blown inside out by the gusts.

We sensibly abandoned the higher ground and slipped down through the trees instead, taking a sheltered shortcut back towards the valley floor. As we passed through the woodland, a lone roe buck watched us from the branches, peering quietly through the tangle of trunks as if mildly curious about our hurried retreat.

By afternoon the weather had turned properly foul, rain lashing against the windows while our guests gathered around the kitchen table. Inside, though, the house was warm and full of noise. The Italian-inspired feast unfolded in leisurely courses — plates passed around, glasses refilled, conversation flowing as easily as the wine.

Outside, the valley continued its argument with the wind and rain. Inside, the kitchen glowed with warmth, laughter, and the comfortable chaos that comes from a table full of family.

A rather perfect ending to the weekend.