Notes from Hebden Bridge

14 January 2026

On January 12th — just 21 days after the ending of a three year relationship, leaving our home and temporarily moving back in with my parents — I arrived at Hebden Bridge at around 4pm for an impromptu two-night solo break. There was something drawing me to Hebden Bridge. Not sure what. Likely a mix of lesbians, Sylvia Plath, calmness, safety and cobblestone bridges. I craved a type of quiet that I hadn’t experienced since probably before the relationship. I wanted space for me to exist outside of my incessant need to metabolise the inner worlds of others at the expense of my own. I was exhausted. I am. I think I needed a little space to cradle me. It was also just 15 minutes on the train.

The place I booked ended up being a little stable conversion just a few minutes’ walk from the station, named “Grooms House”. I noticed the modern purple front door was set within the remnants of a stable gate, big black iron hooks still jutting from the stone. It felt warm, inviting, cosy. Bonus points, it had a mezzanine, the most beautiful gold and green waterfall shower I’d ever seen and some really nice coconut soap.

That evening at 7pm, I went to the local Picture House and watched a new film called Sentimentality. As I went to push open the heavy front door, a smiling lady opened it for me. The place felt a bit like a warm, familiar ghost town. Or a time machine to the 1920s, but they still scanned QR code tickets and sold cans of Diet Coke. I bought one and went to sit down. There were three pews of seats and I sat in the middle, but on the left outer edge. The safest choice. The cinema itself was beautiful, very art deco. There was a warmth to the fuzzy red carpets and plush velvet chairs. The screen sat upon a pillared stage, all embossed in black, red and gold. It felt like I was visiting in someone else’s dream, my face dimly lit by a green fire exit sign.

Five people were already sat down. Two couples in front and a person behind. There was a kind of safety threaded through the air of the place, because upon deciding that I did actually want that white wine after all, I left my green bomber jacket laid out against the back of my chair. The wine (also canned) was served in a plastic glass, though as I sat back down, I noticed streams of people float slowly in, their footsteps cushioned by red clouds, all holding self-served tea in white builders mugs. The dichotomy felt welcoming. While I was initially disgruntled by the man who sat directly in front of me last minute, it pleasantly surprised me to find that he spent the whole film leaning his entire body to the left, leaving me a perfect view of the screen. It made me wonder whether he was doing it on purpose out of kindness, or if his body naturally bent that way. I also noted a lady a few rows ahead, no taller than 5’2, stretching her legs out straight onto the seat in front. Her legs were short enough to stretch out fully, without her ankles surpassing the back of the chair. By 7:30, the place was cushioned by a home of strangers. It felt nice to watch something with them.

I think I needed that film. Some of the shots were breathtaking, the work with shadows particularly. I felt it did a really good job of revealing so much exposition without the need for words. The father-daughter relationship in the film felt apt. Despite the father’s failings, their relationship ended up reconciling in some complex — yet not fully perfect — kind of way. In one of the very final shots, they both just looked at one another. They said so much in their gaze. It shot a cacophony of conflicting emotions right through me.

I saw my Dad and I, also an eldest daughter, two sides of the same coin, but also not. A confusing contradiction. Grief for what there was, wasn’t and could never be. Hope for what there could. My growth has surpassed his in some ways, but not in others. Like two things can exist at once. That a relationship can be messy and complex and flawed and painful, but could still be rebuilt slowly, imperfectly, unsteadily. Like a steep stone staircase encased in the wet, slippy drenchings of January leaves.

The next day, as I was looking down at this staircase, I debated descending it. It was around 1:30pm and my back was clammy with sweat and my brow stinging from the rain. I had decided to walk to Heptonstall to see Sylvia Plath’s grave for the first time in seven years, though I hadn’t realised the entire half-an-hour journey would be spent walking up a very, very steep hill. I had to stop probably every couple of minutes. But as I was alone, I felt able to stop regularly. I felt able to walk within my limits and not feel tied to the capacity of another. Not feel ashamed of my capacity. I was so out of breath, but I told myself I had the time to stop and breathe.

As I stared down those steep stone steps, I feared that if I didn’t descend them right there and then, I may not have made it back to my little stable accommodation at all. It was probably the most strenuous walk I had done since my CFS diagnosis two years prior. But there, strenuously leaning against some wet, mossy bricks, I noticed I had the space to exist, with patience, in my own time. I had the safety to listen to myself. Upon reflection, I can see that the ability to feel true safety and visibility in the presence of another is more than possible. They just need the empathy and understanding to walk alongside me. Alongside my body and my mind. I am deserving of that.

I turned away from the steep, tempting steps and instead kept on walking upwards. When I finally got to Heptonstall, a sheltered seated bus stop shone ahead like a mirage in very cold, winter desert. After sitting to catch my breath, I ate a Babybel, squished the red wax into my breast pocket with icy fingers, sipped some water from my flask and wandered down a winding cobblestone path towards the graveyard. I left a red pen for Sylvia. I wrote ‘thank you for everything’ on the wrappings of a peeling plaster, because I had left my notebook at home. I wrapped the plaster around the pen and pressed it into the earth alongside the many others. A home of pennies were scattered across the top of her tomb. As I added one to it, I felt a safety with her, if only for a moment. I felt a bit lighter, a bit like she was cradling me.