Hebden Bridge Railway Station.

Living nearby Hebden Bridge Station is one I have used many times and on this occasion was just passing through, so pictured only the westbound side. The station retains many of its original style and is probably the best looking station in use within the Calderdale region.

Opened in October 1840, the station was the end of the line until New Years Eve 1840 when the line was completed to Summit Tunnel, Walsden. Trains through the tunnel to Manchester were in operation from March 1841 when services ran from Leeds to Manchester through the station. Services to Halifax and Bradford commenced in 1852. The current station buildings were completed in 1893, and the station car park was the site of the station goods yard until 1966. During renovation in 1997 signage was installed in the colours of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway.

The station is manned and has toilets and ticket facilities, it also features a small café and has access to buses immediately outside the main entrance. There is disabled access to the Leeds bond platform but currently access to platform 1, trains towards Lancashire and Manchester is only accessible via steps. There are plans to reinstate the lifts between the platforms which have been out of use since the 1980's. The station has 3 Manchester bound trains per hour and 1 towards Preston from Platform 1. Platform 2 has 4 Leeds bound services per hour, 3 via Bradford Interchange and another through Dewsbury.

 The pictures were taken with a Nikon d3300 on the 5th August 2017, they can be seen below with a number also available to view on Clickasnap un-watermarked.

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All the pictures remain the copyright of Colin Green. The pictures of the images on display remain the copyright of the original creator.

Hollins Tunnel and Weir, Sowerby Bridge.

These are 2 short film clips I made recently and have uploaded to YouTube featuring clips to put together of the weir and tunnel at Sowerby Bridge known as Hollins.

Hollins Tunnel.

Hollins Tunnel or Hollins Mill Tunnel as it is also known is a canal tunnel that carries Hollins Mill Lane over it at Sowerby Bridge, West Yorkshire. Built over 200 years ago, the canal was opened in 1804 connecting the Calder & Hebble Navigation at Sowerby Bridge with the Bridgewater Canal at Manchester. The tunnel is the longest on the canal in Yorkshire and is quite an intimidating place in the dark. I filmed the clips at both ends and inside the tunnel on the 6th December 2018.

Hollins Mill Weir.

The weir at Hollins mill can be heard but barely seen from the canal tunnel, they are very close. The weir used to power the nearby mills that have long since been demolished and now stands as a monument to history. It was badly damaged during the devastating floods that hit the Calder Valley on Boxing Day 2015 with a large section now missing although this can't really be seen in the clips. I took these clips on the 6th December.

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Water Bus along the Grand Canal in Venice to Rialto Bridge Stop.

I have recently uploaded to YouTube this video I took whilst on the public transport boat bus along he Grand Canal, Venice. The clip follows the canal from the stop at Casino S. Marcuola to Rialto. It just gave me a chance to film some of the magnificent Venetian architecture that sits on the canal side. The clip is 9 mins 29 secs long and I have added the music Blue Danube by Strauss over it. Please take a moment to view, share and subscribe to my channel.

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Cruise Ship and Venice.

Cruise Ship and Venice is a short video I took on the front at St Marks. I was there early one morning to see the sunrise but sadly cloud cover made that impossible, so instead I became aware the MSC Lirica was dur to dock in Venice shortly so hung around to film it's passage up the Venetian Lagoon towards the port. I must admit it was quite a site and I would have loved to have filmed Venice from the deck of the ship.

The Lirica entered service in 2003 and cost $250 million to build, and can carry up to 2600 passengers.  This was filmed on the 2nd November 2018 using a Nikon d3300 SLR camera. It can be viewed here and on YouTube.

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Whispers of Coal and Controversy, Walker Pit: Unearthing the Story of Miss Lister's Lost Mine

Imagine strolling through the verdant landscape of Shibden Park, the gentle incline of the path leading you upwards towards the panoramic vistas from Beacon Hill. As you walk, you might pass a curious, ornate structure – a seemingly out-of-place piece of architectural flourish amidst the natural beauty. This, my friends, is more than just an interesting relic; it's a silent testament to ambition, partnership, and a touch of Yorkshire grit. This is all that remains of a coal pit with a fascinating story, a pit quite literally paid for by the indomitable Anne Lister and named in honour of her beloved partner, Ann Walker.

Step back to 1835. Shibden Hall, the ancestral home of Anne Lister, needed fuel for its hearths and industry. To meet this demand, the resourceful "Gentleman Jack" commissioned John Mann to dig a pit, strategically located to serve both the Hall and the burgeoning community nearby. This wasn't just any excavation; it was a venture spearheaded by a woman of vision, a woman who dared to engage in the traditionally male-dominated world of industry.

The pit, affectionately (or perhaps with a hint of knowing respect) known as "Miss Lister's Mine," was a tangible symbol of Anne and Ann's life together, a shared enterprise rooted in practicality and perhaps even a touch of shared ambition. It speaks volumes about their partnership, a bond that defied societal norms and extended into the economic realities of their lives.

However, the story of Miss Lister's Mine wasn't without its drama. The competitive world of coal mining in the 19th century often led to friction, and our intrepid landowner found herself embroiled in a dispute with a neighbouring colliery owner, the formidable Christopher Rawson. We can only imagine the spirited exchanges and perhaps even the legal wrangling that ensued as these two strong personalities clashed over resources and territory beneath the Yorkshire soil.

Today, the bustling activity of the mine is long gone. The dark seams of coal have been exhausted, the clanging of tools silenced. Yet, the elegant ventilation shaft stands as a poignant reminder of this industrious past. Its ornate design, perhaps a reflection of Anne Lister's own refined tastes, hints at a level of care and even pride in this venture. It's a beautiful anomaly in the landscape, a whisper of a time when the ground beneath our feet was a source of energy and contention.

So, the next time you find yourself traversing that path from Shibden Park to Beacon Hill, take a moment to pause at this intriguing structure. Let your imagination conjure the scene: the busy workers, the carts laden with coal, the determined figure of Anne Lister overseeing her enterprise, and the quiet support of Ann Walker. This isn't just a walk through picturesque scenery; it's a journey through history, a tangible link to the remarkable lives and enduring legacy of the women who once shaped this very landscape. It's a reminder that even in the quietest corners of our world, fascinating stories lie waiting to be unearthed.

There are 2 set of pictures taken around the tower by me. Clicking any of the images should open a link in another window to my Colin Green Photography store on Zazzle.

The first set shown below was taken on the 1st June 2014 using a Polaroid is2132 bridge camera. 

On this occasion i'd never heard of Walker pit and thought that the tower was part of the ventilation for the Beacon Hill railway tunnel that runs beneath the ground here.

I was passing by again in August 2018 and took the following pictures of the tower, it was largely covered by the hedges that run alongside the path at this time. The tower itself is on private land and I understand the landowner would rather have people keep away from it, which is understandable.

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Settle: More Than Just a Stop on the Iconic Carlisle Line

Settle Railway Station. The very name conjures images of windswept Yorkshire Dales, the rhythmic chug of a diesel engine, and the promise of adventure along one of Britain's most celebrated railway lines – the Settle to Carlisle. But this unassuming station, nestled approximately a mile west of the charming market town of Settle, holds a history far more intriguing than its present-day modest appearance might suggest.

For those who simply see it as a convenient gateway to the Dales, it's worth knowing that Settle Station is actually the second to bear that name. The original "Settle" station, which opened its doors way back in 1849, is the very stop we now know as Giggleswick. Imagine the confusion for early travellers! It wasn't until May 1st, 1876, that our current Settle station came into being, initially grandly christened "Settle New Station." The original then became "Settle Old" before finally settling on the name Giggleswick in November 1877 – the same moment "New" was quietly dropped from Settle's title. A little bit of railway renaming trivia to impress your fellow passengers!

While the hustle and bustle of a major city station is absent here, Settle retains a certain charm. Staffed part-time, it offers a glimpse into a more traditional era of rail travel. And speaking of tradition, the connection between the platforms has its own fascinating tale. For years, passengers and porters alike relied on a simple barrow crossing at the northern end. But in 1993, progress arrived in an unexpected form. A bridge, made redundant by the electrification of the line at Drem Railway Station in East Lothian, was carefully dismantled and reassembled here in Settle. It's a testament to resourceful engineering, and as the author rightly notes, it blends in so seamlessly, you'd be forgiven for thinking it had stood there since the station's inception. Interestingly, the old barrow crossing still sees occasional use by station staff and wheelchair users, a tangible link to the station's past.

The historical significance of Settle Station hasn't gone unnoticed. In March 1984, it proudly gained Grade II listed status, recognizing its architectural and historical importance. Adding another layer to this historical tapestry is the beautifully restored signal box. Although it ceased operation in 1984, the dedicated efforts of the Friends of the Settle - Carlisle line have brought it back to its former glory, a silent sentinel overlooking the tracks.

These glimpses into Settle Station's past were captured on a sunny August day in 2016, through the lens of a Nikon D3300 SLR camera. These images likely tell their own story, freezing moments in time at a station that has witnessed generations of travellers embarking on their Dales adventures.

So, the next time you find yourself waiting on the platform at Settle, take a moment to appreciate the layers of history beneath your feet. It's more than just a stop; it's a living testament to the enduring legacy of the Settle to Carlisle Railway and a charming piece of Yorkshire's railway heritage.

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Cross Stone (St Pauls) Church, Todmorden.

The Calder Valley, a ribbon of green winding through the heart of West Yorkshire, holds its secrets close. Amongst its picturesque towns and alongside the tranquil flow of the Rochdale Canal, I'd often glimpsed a solitary silhouette perched high above Todmorden. This was Cross Stone Church, also known as St Paul's, a place that had long piqued my curiosity. Little did I know, the story held within its weathered stones was far more captivating than its distant view suggested.

Finally, on a crisp April day in 2017, armed with my trusty Nikon D3300, I made the climb. What I found wasn't a bustling place of worship, but a silent sentinel, a defunct church with a history etched into its very fabric. Built in 1832, St Paul's wasn't the first sacred space to grace this commanding spot. For centuries before, since at least 1450, earlier churches had stood watch over the valley, their stories now layered beneath the current structure like geological strata.

The year 1978 marked a poignant turning point. Declared unsafe, the church was abandoned, the ominous whisper of it "sliding down the hill" sealing its fate as a place of active worship. This sense of precariousness only added to the air of mystery that clung to the site.

But the history of Cross Stone Church extends beyond its structural woes. Imagine a time when Todmorden was a town divided, straddling the ancient border between Yorkshire and Lancashire. Perched on its hilltop, St Paul's served the spiritual needs of the Yorkshire community, while St Mary's catered to their Lancashire neighbours. The boundary changes of 1888 unified the town under the White Rose of Yorkshire, yet the legacy of this division lingers in the stories of these two churches.

As I wandered the grounds, the silence was broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of the valley below. It was then that I noticed the curious details that hinted at the church's long and varied past. And then there were the lower walls, where a certain "spooky setting" did indeed prevail, the weathered stone hinting at tales untold.

Perhaps the most intriguing discovery was tucked away on the east wall: a set of ancient stocks, now embraced by the untamed beauty of a wild garden. These silent restraints spoke of a time when public punishment was a visible part of community life, a stark reminder of the social structures of centuries past. To see them now, softened by moss and surrounded by wildflowers, was a powerful juxtaposition of harsh history and gentle nature.

My long-awaited visit to Cross Stone Church wasn't the vibrant exploration of a living parish I had perhaps naively envisioned. Instead, it was a journey into the quiet dignity of a forgotten place, a poignant encounter with history etched in stone and whispered on the wind. It served as a powerful reminder that even in abandonment, places hold their stories, waiting for a curious eye and an open heart to listen. The view from the hilltop, overlooking Todmorden and the valley beyond, was breath taking, but the true beauty lay in the silent testament of Cross Stone Church, a steadfast landmark bearing witness to centuries of change.

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Postcard's fom the Past. Fir Tree Pond, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.

Our final glimpse into the past today takes us to the serene waters of Fir Tree Pond, nestled on the common in the elegant Royal Tunbridge Wells. This isn't just any picture postcard; it's a tangible link to a summer day over a century ago, a fleeting moment captured in ink and paper.

Imagine holding this very card, its edges softened by time and handling. It bears the indelible mark of its journey through the postal system: a clear postmark dated 3rd July 1913. Think of the world as it was then, just a year before the outbreak of the Great War, a world powered by horses and early automobiles, where communication relied on the steady rhythm of the postal service.

Affixed to the back is a humble yet significant detail: a King George V half penny green stamp. This small piece of adhesive paper, bearing the profile of the reigning monarch, speaks volumes about the era. It's a tiny window into the visual language and currency of the time.

This particular postcard wasn't merely a scenic view; it served its intended purpose. It was posted, embarking on a journey from the genteel surroundings of Royal Tunbridge Wells to a Miss Ratcliffe residing at 4 Market Street, Nottingham. One can almost picture the postman, perhaps on a bicycle, delivering this small piece of news.

And what news did it carry? Here, the story becomes a little more enigmatic. The handwritten message, faded and perhaps smudged over the years, proved a challenge to decipher. Yet, through the veil of time, fragments emerge. A polite acknowledgment: "thanks for a previous letter". This simple phrase hints at an ongoing correspondence, a connection between two individuals separated by distance.

Then, a universal observation, one that transcends time and place: "the weather was raining". A quintessential British summer's day, it seems, even in 1913! This small detail grounds the image, making the scene feel more real, more relatable. We can almost feel the dampness in the air, see the raindrops dimpling the surface of Fir Tree Pond.

Who was the sender? What were the contents of that "previous letter"? What were Miss Ratcliffe's thoughts upon receiving this damp missive? These are the silent questions that echo from this small piece of ephemera.

This postcard of Fir Tree Pond is more than just a pretty picture. It's a snapshot of a specific moment in time, carrying echoes of human connection and the everyday realities of life over a hundred years ago. It reminds us that even the simplest of objects can hold fascinating stories, waiting to be pieced together from the faint whispers of the past.

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A Glimpse Through Time: Leicester's Hospital, Warwick.

Holding this postcard, the familiar weight of aged cardstock in my hand, I'm transported not just to the charming medieval town of Warwick, but to a place steeped in history and quiet dedication: the Lord Leycester Hospital. It's more than just a picturesque building captured in sepia tones (or perhaps vibrant hues, depending on its vintage); it's a tangible link to centuries of care and service.

The subject of this particular piece of my ever-growing postcard collection is, as the name suggests, the Lord Leycester Hospital. But "hospital" in this context isn't the bustling medical facility we might imagine today. Instead, this remarkable institution stands as a beacon of enduring charity, a haven established in the late 16th century by Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Its purpose then, as it remains today, is to provide support and accommodation for ex-servicemen and their wives or widows.

Think about that for a moment. While grand castles and bustling market squares often dominate historical narratives, here we have a place specifically designed to care for those who have served their country. Each stone of the Lord Leycester Hospital whispers tales of loyalty, sacrifice, and the enduring need to support those who have borne the burdens of conflict.

Looking closely at the image on the postcard – perhaps it captures the iconic timber-framed architecture, the serene Master's Garden, or the imposing gateway – I can almost feel the echoes of past residents. Imagine the conversations held within those ancient walls, the camaraderie forged through shared experiences, the quiet dignity of lives dedicated to service.

This postcard, therefore, transcends its simple function as a piece of correspondence. It's a miniature window into a world where compassion and community have stood the test of time. It's a reminder that history isn't just about battles and monarchs; it's also about the enduring efforts to care for one another.

As a small part of my larger collection, this postcard of the Lord Leycester Hospital holds a special significance. It represents not just a beautiful building, but a powerful testament to the enduring spirit of human kindness and the importance of remembering and supporting those who have served. It's a story etched in ink and paper, a story I'm proud to hold within my hands.

What stories do your own collections hold? Have you ever encountered a seemingly simple object that unlocked a deeper understanding of history or human connection?

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A Century-Old Glimpse of Dartmeet, Devon

Holding this postcard, the smooth, slightly yellowed surface a testament to time, feels like cradling a tiny window into the past. It's more than just a piece of cardstock; it's a silent witness, a tangible link to a Devon landscape a century removed from our own.

The image itself captures the iconic meeting of the East and West Dart rivers at Dartmeet. Even in this static, sepia-toned moment, you can almost hear the gentle rush of water as the two streams embrace, their individual journeys merging into a single, stronger flow. The ancient clapper bridge, a rugged spine of granite, stands sentinel over the confluence, its weathered stones bearing the footsteps of generations.

Imagine the scene a hundred years ago. Perhaps a horse-drawn cart trundles across the bridge, its wheels echoing on the stone. Maybe picnickers, dressed in the fashions of the era, spread blankets on the riverbank, their laughter carried on the breeze. Were there anglers casting lines into the clear waters, hoping for a catch? The postcard doesn't tell us these stories directly, but it ignites the imagination, prompting us to fill in the details of a bygone era.

This isn't just a pretty picture; it's a historical artifact. Think about the journey this small piece of paper has taken. It was likely purchased as a memento, a tangible reminder of a visit to this beautiful spot. Perhaps it was sent to a loved one, carrying a brief message of "wish you were here" or a simple update on travels. Who held it? What were their lives like? Did they ever return to Dartmeet?

Holding this approximately century-old postcard connects me to those unknown individuals and to a version of Dartmeet that has undoubtedly changed, yet likely retains its timeless charm. The rivers still meet, the bridge still stands, and the beauty of the Devon landscape endures. This little piece of my collection isn't just a picture; it's a whisper from the past, a reminder of the enduring power of place and the stories held within the simplest of objects.

It makes you wonder, what stories will our postcards tell a hundred years from now?

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