Last Sunday I stood on the doorstep at 10.20 with a flask under my arm and a banana in my coat pocket, while Matt hunted for his other boot. Before we reached the end of the street the walk had already started, because from our door every route starts by going down. It is steep enough that I do a sort of sideways shuffle Matt calls the Walkley crab.
Down to the river
The first fifteen minutes are all descent, through streets of terraces much like ours, then a path between allotments and a flight of steps that always makes my knees file a complaint. At the bottom the road crosses the river, and just past the bridge there is a gate and a signpost for the Rivelin Valley nature trail. Everything goes quiet in about thirty seconds. The roar of the road drops away and you can hear water, and then very little else.
In April the whole valley floor smelled of wild garlic, as though somebody was cooking for the whole of Sheffield. That has long gone, and now the smell is cut grass, river and nettles, with elderflower hanging over the path in creamy plates. Dogs are the main traffic, followed by runners, followed by a man with two walking poles who we have seen on eleven of the last twelve Sundays and have never spoken to.
Dams, wheels and a bench
The trail runs beside the river for about two miles downstream towards Malin Bridge, and the whole way is stitched together by old water. Sheffield made its knives and scythes with water power before steam, and the Rivelin was lined with grinding wheels. What is left now is a string of mill dams, holding still dark water with the odd duck, and stone sluices and wheel pits with information boards. Matt reads every one aloud. I have now heard what was ground at each site, and the answer is always knives, scythes or corn.
Maureen worked at a cutlery firm for years, and when I told her where we walk she said she hadn't been down since 1998. "It's uphill on the way back, love." She isn't wrong.
About halfway along, by a bend with a heron who stands in the same spot like he's paying rent, there is a bench with a plaque to a dog called Biscuit, who walked this valley for fourteen years. It's the dog-walkers' bench, and it's where the flask comes out. We have the same argument every week about who gets the cup without the chip.
It is also where we do our best talking. The path is flat and wide enough for two, nobody has a phone out, and the conversation can wander for a mile without anyone minding. Most of the big house decisions so far, from the roofer to the raised beds, were settled somewhere between the first dam and the bench.
The way back up
At Malin Bridge we turn round and climb back out of the valley by the steep paths and then the streets, and this is where the walk earns its keep. The last mile is almost entirely uphill, and our front door is the highest point on the whole route. Last Sunday the timings went like this: fifteen minutes down, fifty minutes along the river, ten at the bench, and an hour back up, which comes to two hours fifteen for about five miles. Our phones agree to within a tenth of a mile, which is the only thing they have ever agreed on.
It costs nothing, apart from the banana and whatever is in the flask, and it has done more for my mood than anything I've bought for the house. We've met the same dogs so many times that I know their names and not their owners'. On a bright Sunday in June, with the river low and the dams still, it is hard to think of anywhere I'd rather be, and then I remember the hill and think of the kettle. Matt says "Brew?" the moment we are through the gate, every single week, and every single week I say yes.
