Huddersfield Chronicle (04/Aug/1894) - Lindley Moor, Scapegoat Hill, and Golcar

The following is a transcription of a historic newspaper article and may contain occasional errors. If the article was published prior to 1 June 1957, then the text is likely in the Public Domain.

LINDLEY MOOR, SCAPEGOAT HILL, AND GOLCAR.

(From Our Correspondent "Cid.")

Let me have breath of undulating moors,
Where breezes freely blow:
Let me climb hills, the everlasting hills,
O’er which the white clouds flow;
Let me see summer son and harvest moon
Creep up the eastern sky,
Sink in the west when they their course have run
And mark how time does fly;
Let me note seasons as they come and go,
From upland glorious height.
And you may revel in the throbbing throng
Of towns, morn, noon, and night.

If in St. George’s Square and unable to make up your mind where to go, do as I have often done, mount the Salendine Nook tram, and you will be sure to make no mistake. Lindley Moor is a grand table-land. The sweet breath from the heather invigorates you, while ways and bye-ways, beaten and unbeaten tracks, tempt you in almost every direction. Be sure, however, you are on the better side of a good meal before you visit this place, or you may wander in the wilderness until you are famished ere you find a port in which to rest and be refreshed. When you have wandered as I have done over this delightful upland plain, and revelled in its picturesque expanse, you will not be surprised the ancient Romans made this moorland a camping ground, and you will also conclude that they knew a fine and secure height when they saw one. Further, it is quite safe for those who have lost the legs of their youth to visit here, and also for those who prefer to climb downwards rather than mount every knoll or peak as they did in the days before good living, infirmities, or advancing years handicapped him in the race of life. From Lindley Moor it is downhill everywhere except to Scapegoat Hill, whither I, on this occasion, am going, and to get there I have even to all but roll into the valley to the Longwood reservoirs before I begin to mount that wonderful hill. Just in the hollow, which might well be called “Sleepy Hollow,” I meet an old acquaintance whose familiarity may be gauged by his greeting:— “What, are you alive? I thought you would have been dead long ago,” and my fear of him by my reply:— “Well, bless me! as I read the births, marriages, and deaths the other week, as completely as ever a woman could, I thought I saw your name amongst them, but there are so many Bills o’ Tom’s, Dicks o’ Jack’s, Bets o’ Jooah’s, and Salls o’ Mat’s at your Golcar, that I was not sure, as few can be sure, who dies in your locality if only the proper names are given.” I further told him that only the other week, a well-known 60 year old Golcar man asked who —— was, that appeared among the deaths that week. The reply was that it was ——, and so it was. She had lived within a stone’s throw of questioner, and had been known to him from her girlhood as so-and-so of so-and-so’s. Of course I ask my sardonic friend the origin of “Golcar lily,” but he either does not know or evades me. Still I have as many replies to this question as would fill a page, some of them very Golcarian in their pawkiness. The question is still an open one. Some say that years ago Golcar and Linthwaite were great rivals in exhibiting the lily at flower shows, and that Golcar was often successful, and “as fair as a Golcar lily” is the result. The term is, however, so happy, and can be applied to other loveliness than flowers, that I believe the men, in their gallantry, and the ladies, especially the young, in their secret hearts, are in league to keep it a mystery, so that the gentle and fair sex might take credit for it, by blending the rose of their cheeks with the lily of their brows. My friend is in haste to catch the tram, so with hearty good wishes and the expression of a hope that the next time we meet it may be where there is less water, and more of something with “body” in it, as well as more time, and a cosy room in which we may discuss politics and the labour question, and forget that there is such a thing as a clock or a watch, or even time in the world. I really don’t know my friend’s proper name, nor am I anxious to learn it. Some of my best intellectual town and country acquaintances might never have been christened, so little do I concern myself about their names and addresses. I have found an advantage in this kind of ignorance. It does away with the cold formalities of introduction, and leaves one free to speak on any subject without fear of giving offence about ancestors or descendants.

The less I know of their private affairs the better I enjoy their conversation, and the more lasting is the friendship, especially when the means of introduction have been some wonder in nature, such as a lightning’s flash, a brilliant sunset, a pitiless storm, a calm scene in the heavens, the mighty great, or the marvellously small. Some more curious than others, like mother Eve, will ask my name, address, whether I am married or single, what I do for a living, &c., &c., &c., and when evasion is impossible they get to know, but I generally find from that time that such have a blind side, and when I meet them they are interested with nothing in particular, but not with me. I, of course, conclude that they had been listening to Mrs. Rumour, or her drivelling husband, who has whisperingly informed them, on condition that they tell nobody else, that my great grandfather’s sister’s husband was a notorious fighter, that my 23rd cousin was put into the stocks for drinking two pints of stout instead of one, and that I, even I, am no better than I ought to be. It is not always wise to know everything about your friends if you would folly enjoy their company.

I now begin to climb Nettleton Hill, pass a cleanly and neatly kept farmstead, and although some of the odours strike the nose pungently you have an antidote if you turn to windward, while the sweet redolence from the flowers and the healthy kine give a satisfaction that may be searched for in vain among the stifling fumes of the streets of your town. Nettleton Hill is only just up there, but somehow it takes a lot of reaching, and this journey should not, unthinkingly, be undertaken by the fat, fair, and 50. Still to climb as I do is not over-laborious. I am constantly looking back and around and trying to surfeit myself with the scenery which, at this place, is ever grand and imposing. From here you see hills and vales unlimitedly, and all are grand. What a dreadful commotion there must have been in prehistoric times to map out such undulating beauty! When near the top I am overtaken by a young quarryman or delver. Of course I ask him a string of questions and am both pleased and surprised at his correct and intelligent answers, so much so that my opinion of that class of workmen is agreeably modified. I stick closely to him and my way would have been his way for a mile or two if his home had been at that distance. I then meet a pack-donkey, driven by a youth just in his teens. There are no hedges or trees about here, so the boys, and the men too, are stickless in defence or attack, but as stones are plentiful, such missiles are found very convenient. I am shocked to see the youth strike the poor ass with large stones in order to urge it on. Of course the patient animal goes no faster, notwithstanding its brutal treatment. I reprove the boy, but he eyes me defiantly, and seems to hesitate at which to throw the boulder he has in his hand. The four-legged one gets it just above the fetlock, and it lifts its leg in pain, but does not, like Baalam’s ass, complain. Several men and women are looking on not far away, and seem to take it as a matter of course. I should have thrashed the lad, but that would have been taking the law into my own hands. Why not report such things to the R.S.P.C.A. people? I prefer a quicker and less costly course than that. When I committed acts of cruelty, and was caught, I was chastised on the spot, and although I did not forgive my chastiser whilst I was smarting under the punishment I have done so since, and feel no less manly for it. I deserved what I got, and if such sharp chastisement were now meted out there would be less insolence shown and cruelty practised than at present. I pass on and am soon in company with a strong young fellow who has a pigeon in a basket. He is training it from t’ “Nont Sarah’s” against a neighbour’s blue rock for 30s. a-side. He does not tell me all this in a hurry. I ask him several questions and find him somewhat unwilling to answer until I discover he knows a great deal about pigeons, and, on finding that I also know a little about them, he tells me some wonderful stories about the birds he owns and has owned. He has trained pigeons from all parts of Yorkshire, and even had some that would come from London. He knows their speeds to the minute and he gives me a string of details that bewilder me, in fact, he is eloquent in his Golcar patois. We are soon fast friends, and then he will tell me anything, and even wishes there was a public-house near that he might treat me, but if I will go with him to t’ “Nont’s” I can have what I like to drink. I know the distance, and though I should like the journey I, with many thanks, tell him I am not going quite so far. I bid my pigeon friend good day and look around. There is a group of boys enthusiastically playing cricket in the heather, and they are boisterous with joy. They remind me of the time when I played in the stubble and long grass, and when we could run 20 while our opponents were searching for the ball. My little friend let me have a go, and, though I was once considered a fair cricketer, I am out the first ball, to my confusion and to their delight. There is always a stiff breeze at this place, and the people seem as healthy and as sturdy as their hills. The long-windowed buildings tell me that handloom weaving was once carried on here, and remind me of my bobbin-winding days. I notice a weaver’s beam is doing duty as a gate to a field. There is a Bethel close by that has an air of sanctity about it. The people seem to delight in Scriptural names for their buildings and localities. I am altogether pleased with my surroundings. Hills upon hills rear their stately heads over and beyond one another. I know no place in this district where an Eiffel Tower could be more appropriately built. From here you seem to be able to see everywhere and be seen from everywhere. Huddersfield looks hopelessly in a hole, stewing as if in a mighty witch’s cauldron, and you really feel ashamed of its apparent insignificance. There are circles of hills drawn with geometric accuracy, even to the third and fourth tier. I can scarcely believe my eyes; in fact, it is impossible to adequately describe this scene. Blackmoorfoot Reservoir looks like a fish-pond; another sheet of water glistens in the sunshine at Dean Head, and although you know you are as near the sky as you can be in the district, still the eye is deceived by the hills which tower among the distant clouds, while Scapegoat seems to be a pivot on which they turn in an unending and imposing procession.

(Scapegoat Hill and Golcar next week.)