The Peakland Way: Friday

  

A third attempt at this route. The first, in March 1978, was successfully backpacked with my girlfriend to the original suggested itinerary* (journal extracts included); the second attempt wasn't for another 25yrs with much less kit but with tent, boots and running shoes(!) - which ended in failure due to heat exhaustion and blisters. This attempt aimed to be in the 'lightweight and unencumbered' style of Ronald Turnbull - successful..? read on...    Arrive Friday:        It’s a short walk from the car park to the centre of Ashbourne and I’m confident that the chip shop will be open. So it's on the steps of the cross that I enjoy my high calorie supper. A pretty and active market square this, with a good few pubs - not a thirsty person in sight. 7:50 pm      With a traditional touching of the cross it’s away off up ‘The Channel’, straight over at the top then down a series of fields to cross the Tissington Trail that I hope to see again by Monday if all goes well...      At Mapleton's tiny church the first spots of rain are felt but I'm not too concerned as only light showers are forecast.        After Littlepark the aromatic thrill of Wild Garlic feeds the senses in a wooded section beside the River Dove, where, beyond, stands the forlornly isolated Coldwall Bridge. Built to carry a coach road in times past, its grandeur is lost on grazing cattle and of no interest whatsoever to the three hares gamboling amidst these fertile lush meadows a little farther upstream.      Four miles into the route and on the far side of the river, the famous Isaac Walton Hotel marks the entrance to Dovedale - I remind myself that I have never walked its length! Closer to hand - underfoot in fact, the cattle-churned and hardened ground is becoming rather harsh on yet unsuspecting ankles and a little lace adjustment is called for.      Soon at Ilam, past the cross and beyond the church, I cut across in front of the Hall which is now a Youth Hostel. The shower's a long one it seems – but then an unwilling recognition: no shower this – this is rain… heavy now too. The attractive Paradise Walk with Saxon cross stump affords shelter for a few hundred yards but not to worry, the forecast is for light showers... and I need to press on... time to apply a little faith - shame it doesn’t come in tubes…      A pull up the service road to Throwley Hall keeps me warm and I have enough light left to negotiate the fields beyond, where, last time, a dark shape ahead in the twilight sported very long horns indeed… a docile breed maybe, but a cautious diversion delivered me to the gate, where, on this occasion, again my way is barred by a party of the familiar and all too curious bovine bystanders. Much shooing and farmers talk in the form of ‘whey up’ and ‘gid on’ has no effect whatsoever as usual, and look, this one’s married - got a big ring through its nose and, ooops, those extremely large testicles prove beyond a shadow of doubt who’s wearing the trousers here… bugger.      At least the rain has eased as I teeter on the barbed wire. I’d never really fancied having my privates pierced but if I don’t get my footing right here...      Great fun for all - trying to outpace the bully brigade, but they know something I don’t: their field is ‘L’ shaped. So after the next fence I drop straight back onto their patch. Tch, I wasn’t expecting this kind of pace so soon… nothing quite as encouraging as the sound of a cantering herd… it crosses my mind that I could  be at home watching telly... right now.      Safety of a sort eventually comes with the steep slip-stoney track down to Beeston Tor Farm and the climber's caravan site. And, once again, it's torch time. Of all the ladies I have had the pleasure of accompanying by far the most persistent in pursuit is Miss Calculation. She pops up everywhere. Here she is explaining that last time I did this route it was July… and now it’s early May… and yes I know I should have been expecting it to get dark earlier… dearest.      Light showers were forecast...      No shower this. I splash onward up the Manifold Way - tiny beam playing upon sheets of water both vertical and horizontal. At Weag's Bridge hopes are raised by a dim light ahead… I’m confused… turns out to be a small motor caravan parked up for the night… cosy indeed - ha, the sting of it. Could I crawl underneath I wonder? Ahead lies only darkness the colour of coal and the incessant sound of falling water. This could get serious. I begin to peer over bridges in the hope of finding some shelter as the river hereabouts disappears underground, but the dry bed appears far too rocky and dispells any hope of comfort.      As last time, the decision is taken to miss the turn over the river at Wetton Mill, the end of original stage 1 (alas no longer a camp site) - Journal entry 24/3/78 Day 1: (good weather for 1st day - discovered tea room - good - steady day - Wetton good site but a bit busy...)    - I'll stay this side of the river and take stock in the tunnel, YES! of course, the tunnel… The puddles at times are so deep, they fill my running shoes but it matters little as I’m wet through anyway.      Soon the sodium lights of the tunnel pierce the gloom and the mysterious other-worldly echoey 'Doctor Who'-like sound amplified by the stonework is merely from water spilling onto an empty lager can! Here, now, at least some light and brief respite. I toy with the idea of laying out the bag road an’ all just so as to be out of the rain - until a solitary car whizzes through returning me to my senses. I'm certainly ill-equipped for these conditions - keep moving - keep warm. I could use the fleece under the wind shell but will need to keep that dry for bag entry.... Soaked to the skin and quite chilled now from standing, I continue off-road once again on the former light railway track bed the next mile-and-half to Hulme End.      Emerging onto the car park – and… ah, phone box too – sleep vertically? Comfort is just a phone call away… is this the end? No way can I lay my bag out in this... ah, but ...here’s the old station - the roof here overhanging what would have been the platform - dry too... an ideal spot. Bit hard on the tarmac, but a Godsend non-the-less. Fleece is still quite dry... wind's too cold to stand about but a car draws onto the car park and… it’s walkies time. There’s much whistling and calling as I begin to shiver out of sight. Fortunately the dogs don’t pick up my scent and soon the car’s pulling away. Time for bag entry. Once inside I realise just how cold I am... tear open the Hot Pad and shake... a little warmth... then a big shiver... then home and dry... I find some sleep, but wake with cold clammy legs... reposition the hot pad... why didn't I pack the Berber liner instead of this flimsy silk? …because it's an extra 600gms and more with the necessary compression sac… and anyway, the forecast wasn't this bad. Brrrr... I try and breathe out through the small opening to keep my moist breath outside in an effort to avoid condensation inside, but find it gets too clammy.      During the night the wind picks up and forms waves up the outer bag...         'The Peakland Way' route, book and origination are the property of The John Merrill Foundation. Any reference to the Peakland Way is made in acknowledgement of The John Merrill Foundation as copyright owners of the book, route and orgination. Jan2006©m.l.weller