Good morning. This morning, I came across a little flyer on your noticeboard asking you to share some stories on how Chellow Dean has played a part in your life. Y’know I’d just like to share something, y’know? Chellow Dean has been instrumental in my recovery, y’know I started walking here over ten years ago. And pretty much every day I try come and do a lap or two around Chellow Dean just to, you know, connect with my higher power and my Creator. And just, you know, give thanks to where my life has turned around for the better.

You know, I was in the midst of active addiction stuff over two decades and very quickly it spiralled out of control. Everywhere I turned – just pure carnage. Until I admitted that I had a problem. You know, which was alcoholism. You know, I made a conscious decision, you know, to surrender to alcoholism and start my journey on recovery. You know, part of that journey was to connect and to connect to a being far greater than myself.

And even though I’m from a muslim background, you know, I found it difficult to go back to the mosque because I knew, because of the guilt and the shame and remorse that my life had. You know – created a lot of mess. And what I found easier was to, y’know, just come out and walk and connect with being, y’know, in nature. It’s beautiful.

And I’ve been walking around Chellow Dean for over ten years now. And every day, yeah, I come here and I spot something new. You know, as the mess and the carnage in my brain unfolded… Y’know, so this ability to take in new things, I walk around and I see – especially this time of year on the trees, you know, it’s an absolutely amazing place.

You know, I’m looking at relocating to the other side of the world, yeah. But I’m lucky to have some really fond memories of this place. You know, when I was at my lowest point in my life, y’know I’d just sit here looking over the reservoir for many hours, just trying to piece my life together. And, you know, I honestly believe the amount of times I’ve sat here on this wall on my own, y’know, for many years, you know, just trying to unravel the complications of life.

Y’know, God has gifted me in more ways than one you know, I’m not only recovered, I’m in recovery for eight years now. And, you know, part of my journey is to go back out and to be a positive role model in somebody else’s life. You know – that if I can do it, maybe you can. And, y’know, part of my routine with anybody that I work with is to try get some physical exercise, you know, try and connect with nature. You know, living quite close to Chellow Dean,

I don’t even need to drive down. You know, I just walk down pretty much every day – part of my routine. And how I connect with my Creator – it’s a beautiful place. Um, and thanks for giving me this opportunity to share my story.

I never really saw it from the outside looking in as, you know, somewhere to visit, somewhere to explore for the day – take pictures. Never saw it like that at all. It were just – nipping to Chellow Dean after, you know, after we’d go to Co-op. For me, it was kind of like our back garden. And that’s kinda all we knew back then.

Back in them days, it was… Didn’t live online. D’you know what I mean, so it was kind of just… You deal with the surroundings that you have. And that made it more fun because you had to, you had to make your own fun really.

I grew up in Allerton. Erm, Chellow Dean kind of cuts through the middle of the estate. It was a place to be able to hang out. You know, with mates. It was just part of my upbringing, really.

I remember, ‘cause I used to go to the local youth club in Allerton, but I remember them discussing that they did a day trip to Chellow Dean. And that just blew my, I just couldn’t get around why. D’you know what I mean? Why did you, [laughs] why would you do that? You know.

When it was too dark and I couldn’t walk through the fields into Haworth Road, I used to walk through the proper Chellow Dean entrance. And the street that goes into Chellow Dean, the houses are so sick. Like they’re massive aren’t they, they’re like manor houses. Which is weird because, like, Chellow Dean to me is just like the back end of an estate. Our entrance was a snicket.

In the area that I grew up in, it was always summat going on, but it were always like – bad. D’you know what I mean like, so I guess Chellow Dean was a little bit of escapism really, in a way. Even like little, really little things like skipping stones and stuff. Like it’s almost weird now because, like, you don’t even imagine that to be a thing. I mean it’s better than throwing stones at windows!

It’d be a place where you’d meet mates of mates and, you know, girls were a thing. People from my area’d meet one of the girls from my school and that’d be a thing, d’you know what I mean, so it’s just, I don’t know, kind of you just your teen start of the romance. So, yeah some nice times I guess – utilising Chellow Dean.

We’d MC quite a lot. Erm, just cipher. It were the day where like the way to conversate through music was Bluetooth. D’you know what I mean like, and bassline mixes and grime beats. And all it takes is one person to flick one on and then that’s it. D’you know what I mean.

Chellow Dean ghosts use me as avatars. Show memoirs of reservoirs. Way back when devil worshipping folklore travelled the ends. Mischief made in the midnight mist, driving twokers off the high cliffs. Young boys dossin’ in Chella, skipping schools and stones where we live. And still we swim when summertime hits, next to a fisherman that’s filled with hatred. Downing spirits and witches brews, teenagers feeling emancipated. BMX ride through Sandy Lane, where the posh and the poor get segregated. Away from streets where gangs are waiting. But home is where the playground’s created.

We never knew better. Weekend sesh in Chella. Kiss bare gyal in Chella. Hide out from the police in Chella. Spittin’ bars with the mandem in Chella. The same place where families, runners and tourists take snapshots of the scene. A trip on the maps for you. But it’s the Wild West for me.

Come with me to Chellow Dean, home is where the playground’s created. Come with me to Chellow Dean, years of chinese whispers remaining. Come with me to Chellow Dean.

For me, it was kind of like our back garden and that’s kinda all we knew back then. Erm, yeah them days were fun, man.

School’s done so friends all over Bradford link up through msn.com. Just sneak through the golf club. You bring the Frosty Jacks and we’re here with a ten pound draw for a quick bong. Too young for the club so we made our own on grass with a bassline mix on. Skankin’ on the benches with the gang – it’s been long. Back then was crazy init. Beyond them snickets, Nan was livid. Dumping ground was Allerton’s reservoir where we escaped our troubled upbringings. No worries, venture the quarry. Wanna confirm if the rumours are true… Is a worshipping cult turning up to the cave on Tuesdays to kidnap you?

We never knew better. Weekend sesh in Chella. Kissed bare gyal in Chella. Hideout from the police in Chella. Spittin’ bars with the mandem in Chella. The same place where families, runners and tourists take snapshots of the scene. A trip on the maps for you. But it’s the Wild West for me.

Come with me to Chellow Dean, home is where the playground’s created. Come with me to Chellow Dean, years of chinese whispers remaining. Come with me to Chellow Dean. For me, it was kind of like our back garden.

Take a trip down memory lane in the ends of Devil’s Cave. Have you heard about Devil’s cave? It’s not there anymore. So, like at the top of Chellow Dean, there’s a huge field and it separates the Sandy Lane suburb and Allerton Road. There used to be like a big, really big dip and at the bottom there used to be a cave. And there used to be like these stories and myths that devil worshippers used to go in. So we all used to sneak up there, go into the cave, and then somehow just convince ourself, ‘Oh my God, there’s painting on the rock. Obviously that means the devil worshipers have been!’ You know, ‘Rumour has it they come at a certain day.’ Like 7pm on a Tuesday. Why? D’you know what I mean, like – why? [laughs] Erm.

Let Nature Hold You

The emptiness, that the death of a loved one leaves

That hollow in your ribs, belly, arms, legs and skull

You can see it outside you too

If you visit Chellow Dene in March, but really in April

The leaves finally accepting their destiny as the new earth

The branches blacker than brown

All stubborn leaves that held on throughout the wind and snow

have disappeared, leaving wiry branches alone

there is sky reflecting itself and black twigs of trees

and nothing, nothing in between.

After strolling by the first still water, climb up the hill

listen to the rare birdsong, that goes quiet by the time

you turn on your Merlin app. There,

if you let yourself feel your grief and scream

the entire world of sticks might crumble into the water

you can see through the heart of the woods

it can see right through you.

Don’t stop visiting when May arrives

The woods are wise and know your lifecycle

Allow them to teach you

Watch the softest lime green burst forth

From those hard dark branches

See all the gaps fill from floor to treetop

Watch the ducks edge towards you and the geese

glide and fly freely, then leisurely land on water like a plane

The swan is a few months from blocking the path

Attacking anyone who tries to get past

With this season’s patterns of blue, bells

Each week seek a gap and by week three,

You’ll find none, none at all

Birds won’t chirp; they’ll sing their hearts out

The marsh will begin to wake

The clear water over the pebbled brook

Will flow serenely as ever, taking away your pain

The tree stump covered in mushrooms and velvety moss,

defiant even as it sees its trunk and branches

resting in the water

Dead, hollow, empty, lonely?

Don’t be daft!

new leaves are back on the trees

dead leaves have re-joined the roots

Separate? How? Where?

You too, allow your spring in

One, soft, lime, leaf

At a time

I’ve always been quite fascinated by Chellow Dean. A beautiful place, but also quite sinister and dark. This story came up about two girls who apparently died in very mysterious circumstances. It’s a really, really strange story. It’s confusing, weird, and very, very sad. There was only one set of double footprints that went into the reservoir. What on earth possessed these two girls to commit such an act? If it was self-destruction?

Come with me to Chellow Dean. The new moon is risen. Stay close to me, listen. The turns, the turns. A young lass must learn. Your mother ne’er told ya. Your father would scold ya. But I’ll hold your hand and we’ll wade in between the reeds and the lilies, so we can make clean. And you’ll gather your petticoats, I won’t let go. The waters unstaining – don’t fear what’s below.

September 1887. Two local girls that lived in Allerton. Both very young, 14. Mary Jane Priestley and Rosanna Bairstow. Mary Jane turned up to work one morning and she was told you don’t have a job. Her work was, for whatever reason, not up to the standard or the speed that her co-workers were used to or expecting of her.

Turned me away on the mill step today, ready for work in my apron-shirt but the foreman, he said “Nay.” They’d said, “Load the bobbins faster, Mary Jane. Or we’ll tell the master you’re a lazy girl.” Rosanna I wan’t feeling right. My belly was sore, my bones they were tired. A strange kind of poorly I an’t felt before – cramping and clumsy, bent over ont’ floor.

So she went across the road to the mill where she used to work with her friend, Rose-Ann, and she managed to get herself back working. So you would have thought that all was well with the world. Yet, around half ten that morning, for some reason, they both left the mill and walked towards Chellow Dean. To this day, I don’t think anybody could ever offer an explanation as to why it happened.

During the Victorian era, talking about periods was taboo. Education about menstruation was almost non-existent. Girls were left to navigate the onset of their periods on their own, with little knowledge or understanding of what was happening to their bodies. Misinformation and superstitions prevailed, perpetuating myths and misconceptions. Menstrual belts were worn by those who could afford it. Women in workhouses, however, would usually free bleed into their many layers of clothing, and the floors of the mills were often lined with straw or sawdust for absorption. Menstruation was referred to as the monthly sickness or ‘The Turns’.

The turns – a young lass must learn. Your mother ne’er told ya, your father would scold ya. But I’ll hold your hand and we’ll wade in between the reeds and the lilies, so we can make clean. And you’ll gather your petticoats, I won’t let go. The waters unstaining, don’t fear what’s below.

There was an inquest at a pub in Allerton. The bodies were examined. There was no trace of any trauma. Nobody could find any reason to suppose that either of these girls suffered with mental illness. It was just decided that they’d walked into the reservoir willingly and somehow drowned. Was it an incident that was considered to be too shocking for people to even consider?

 

Before 1919, there was a bar on any woman serving as lawyer, judge, jury or magistrate, and those present at an inquest were almost always exclusively male. A common complaint was that women lacked either the constitution or the intellect required to serve as jurors, succumbing to their emotions, either by fainting or voting for an improper verdict. The theory of menstrual madness held a tight grip on the understanding of even the most prominent 19th century physicians. They believed that repressed menstruation could bring about hysteria in women.

“The tongue falters and trembles and an incoherent thing is spoken. The voice changes and sometimes roars, screams or shrieks of an immoderate nature. Others sigh deeply or weep and moan plaintively. At such times, a woman is undoubtedly more prone than men to commit any unusual or outrageous act.”

Step outta line, fall outta line. Nothing aligns. No one gave us time. Even if they know – damn them, they’ll never know. For what and why. Weeds will overgrow. Can’t hault the flow, we’re running. Through grass and beech, we’re turning. The Chella Beck is pouring. The cold, the crow is cawing. I hear my mother calling. The bank subsides, we’re falling.

Come with me to Chellow Dean truth isn’t given, no one could listen. The turns, the turns. Maybe they’ll learn. Autumn is colder. We never grew older. We’ll hold your hands as you wade in between the rumours and stories – and mebbe they’ll glean, through the dredging and sifting of all we will know. There’s things to be learned in the depths of Chellow.