THE TRAIN was pulling out of Huddersfield station when we saw the burning bush. Loaded with flame red berries, the rowan tree really did look as though it was on fire. Behind it, the derelict woollen mill rose like a crag, its stone still dark with the soots of the Industrial Revolution. This was just the first revelation. On board the TransPennine Express connecting Leeds with Manchester, the window view was a tourist board’s dream. Rising sharply from the narrow valley, the steep hills were clad in purple heather. It was the kind of purple I had forgotten existed. A primary school crayon purple that lifts the eyes and heart. Then there were the birch woods gracing the gentler slopes. The trees were just touched with the first finger of autumn. The great Scots fiddler James Scott S