The Peakland Way: Saturday

Considering survival and its implications ...

Saturday arrives:

4am

      Stick head out - urgh… dark… angry black clouds swirl above... is this first light? ...who cares..?

5am

     Overwhelming dawn chorus - not really warm enough to even consider dressing with soaking wet clothes... if it's not raining, I'll keep the fleece on... drift off…

5.30am

     I'm putting off getting into those wet things for sure. Only 4 miles to Longnor... bus service to Ashbourne? …total cop out?

6am

     I consider survival and its implications - there are considerations of immediate survival, survival of death and survival of the species... hmmm? A robin appears on the fence... he checks me out with a simple stare... he's got to get through the day too I think... Then I'm inspired - like Robert the Bruce and the spider, and realise: It's just another day... of course - it's just another day! This sudden insight gives me the impetus I need to sit up and peel back the bag and climb back into those wet clothes. I wring out the worst first (see puddle in photo!).

     Ah, come on now… the leggings will soon dry... lots of shivering, a good few expletives... but I can do this... keep moving - keep warm. Target: Longnor - shop, bus shelter, cafe... hmm? maybe some coffee... if open - can I afford to wait if not?

     Arrangements are in order (albeit loosely) that I shall team up with friend and ex brother-in-law come marathon runner who now lives in Rowsley - right on route. He has agreed (again albeit loosely) to cover the last 20 odd miles with me. So, now I’ve knocked off 20 miles, because I know if I can get to his house, he, will get me back to Ashbourne (now that’s faith!) So, there’s 13 already done. Tch, only 13… lets see that’s 13 plus the 20 something… 33 …about 65m to Rowsley. Time to get moving…

6:50am.

     I know, I know... it’s a late start. I begin up the road that leads to the field footpath. 4 squidgy miles of pastureland footpaths follow - there is some sunshine though and then more showers, but I'm moving and okay. I'm a robin without wings... were it warmer these pastures would make ideal rice paddies... if my heel shape exactly matches that of a previously placed cow's hoof a good pint of s**t-muddied water is pumped vertically - straight up my nether regions, the thought of which helps keep me 'airborne'!

     Within the hour I'm in the newsagent's in Longnor.
    "Nice and warm in here," I quip, perusing the various treats, although my actual purchase is a more down-to-earth pasty and a pint of milk.

    "Whoa! What the..." There is absolutely no grip whatsoever in these New Balance 781's on the wet stone flags by the bus shelter. It seems the cafe used last time has shut down. The early postman verifies my query. Maybe she was tired of walkers referring to her as a ‘hippy chick’, as I did last time when she sang along to Mott the Hoople's - 'Roll Away the Stone'. The first of my fortified pre-pack muesli goes down well with the rest of the milk.

     I'm reasonably dried out now and stand out the next heavy burst in the public toilets and then it's off - next target: camp site shop in Blackwell 8 miles away. It's only a bit of rain... hey no, it's not, whey hey... it's stopped, so off I trot, soon to squelch my way down to and over the river (Dove) to the first climb of the Way (Hitter Hill) - nearby are Parkhouse and Chrome Hills. Then I'm dodging down to Earl Sterndale and outside The Quiet Woman pub.

     Beyond this still sleepy village another short steep pull brings me to the edge of one big mother of a hole where a sign on the blocked-off concrete shelter tells me that blasting is no longer part of the quarry operations here. The shelter, I remember, came in handy on the first attempt, making a good lunch stop.

     I detour round to cut across fields to pass the sadly deserted Brierlow Grange. Across the busy A515 Ashbourne to Buxton road I'm soon dropping into upper Horseshoe Dale which continues into Deep Dale along the 'Priest's Way'. No cassocks, cloaks, gowns - nothing; not a living soul, but plenty of pretty limestone-loving orchids.

 

     As my shoes have little grip on the smooth wet limestone it’s nice and easy does it over the rocky bits thank you... and here's the Topley Pike quarry and the A6 to cross. It's well chucking it down again now as I head towards the river in Cheedale - up and over at the end of the Monsal Trail, then climb out of the dale and across the wet fields to Blackwell, quarter-way mark and end of Stage 2 as followed back in 1978.

 

Journal entry 25/3/78 Day 2: (Bright in morning - wet afternoon - long day - tiresome - cold night...)

     Argh! NO - what's this? NO campsite shop? I don't believe it... This is bad... Oh, ah... panic not – the shop's moved across the road now, phew... nowhere else till Peak Forest. More milk with flapjack as I entertain mum and daughter who run the shop. They think I'm mad ... well I am mad - (I should at least have a waterproof!) Mum most kindly offers to warm me up some soup as I'm wet through again... though I could have murdered a coffee.

     From Blackwell the route drops back into Chee Dale to cross the river before ascending slip steep to Wormhill... birthplace of somebody who I should remember... James Brindley non less, I think, constructor (mainly in his absence) of a previous route and many other canals...

     Light showers?!  …who pays these people?
     I cower under a bush as bullets of hail ricochet like potshots from some angry celestial blunderbuss. I decide to sit this one out and unfurl the Ridgerest. A proper hood would be good instead of this flimsy folding pensioner’s pak-a-mac thingy but hey, what’s that: a few rays of sunshine across the fields…

     So it's slushy squelching now; more mire of cow s**t and mud and a walled lane that drops rather pleasantly indeed into the top end of Monks Dale. Peak Forest is now only 3m away, where much hope is being pinned on a pub lunch with plenty of nourishing calories.

     Beef Casserole with a mound of perfectly mashed potatoes it is then. Unfortunately the roaring open fire is hogged by others. Maybe it's just as well... see now, if I were to get comfortable...

     Old Moor is tackled well fortified - the red cabbage was delicious - must have a chef... and the mash must've had pedal power ‘cos I've just overtaken some mountain bikers! Quite suddenly too, it seems I've entered 'walkers country'; from none to many - this is because honey-pot Castleton and its 'shimmering' neighbour Mam Tor are ahead.

      Not called Windy Knoll for nothing it's fair blowing on the flat level bit before the up bit and on the top bit people are clinging to the trig point. Then in the lee of the hill all becomes calm... a delightful descent... hang on who's this ahead... can't be... it is… I'd recognise that gait anywhere, even though I haven't followed him for 10 yrs now...
     I pull up behind: "Have you got a fiver on you young man?"
     It's Ian, a customer, and he's never in. During marital problems some years back it was Ian that took me under his wing to introduce me to the 'delights' of the local nightlife in a Sheffield night club. He can't believe it either. I joke that it gets harder and harder to get money out of him, and now the only way is to track him down!
    "This walking's getting expensive," he complains, reluctantly handing over a five pound note, "...£80 for a jacket and now £5 fo' window cleaner, what next?"
     I commiserate, but add that I've never had occasion to own one of those 'fancy' breathable affairs. Out with his girlfriend, they are heading back to their car as I'm making for Kinder... small world or what?      From Hollins Cross, it's all steady downhill now, well nearly, into Barber Booth, and end of Stage 3 -

Journal entry 26/3/78 Day 3: (Snow covering this morning - soon melted in sun though - wet and windy all day...)

   - to pick up what used to be the alternative Pennine Way as far as Ashop Head, where the route on this occasion bears off for the 3m down Ashop Clough and the Snake Inn. On the last attempt I spent a hot, humid, midge infested night at the camp site in Barber Booth.

 

     There are quite a few heading up to Jacob's Ladder but once onto Swine’s Back and beyond Edale Rocks I have the top all to myself.

 

     Some kind of regeneration program is underway as there are hundreds of large bags around the plateau that seem more to do with peat than paving. The wind is so strong at one point that I'm physically blown over and that fire ahead isn't smoke but fine spray thrown up from the Downfall - a case of 'no smoke without water!'
     I try to capture the spectacle on camera but my batteries fail and the image doesn't store. The Downfall calls for a little lingering before I continue to pick my way over Kinder in and around the rock formations.

     From Ashop Head it’s down again with a few ‘ups and arounds’ to cross the side streams. The sun shines for a while as the valley opens out and I sit to take on some quick calories - a good opportunity to catch some of that warm (well, warmish) air. The silk liner is quite damp and the Pertex not much better. I will need a good dry site tonight indeed away from any more rain… though a plan is hatching - I just might be able to wangle a room at the Inn…

     Traffic hissing by on the Snake Road is certainly closer but not getting any nearer.
     Hm? I realise that I’m moving parallel to it. The photocopy from the last attempt is quite dog-eared and missing about an inch of map here… I know, I know. I should have made new copies…

     Emerging on the road, I avoid several attempts at becoming road kill in the last few hundred yards to the inn.
     Now here’s my plan, I may be a doddery old git, living in the past, but feel sure that the cost of a room will take all my cash (around £30 – counted twice, including the additional 'surprise' fiver), if indeed I have enough… I have no cards with me – not even a joker… but, get this, I can ring home and ask the lady waiting if she will phone payment through. This plan however depends on two criteria: a) a room being available, and b) ‘Her’ actually being indoors and willing to cough up!

     Plenty of ‘snap’ available, and a room is to be had for (I was right) £35; however there is no phone in the pub – a pub: no phone: why?
     So here I am making a reverse charge call out in the call box on the car park (it’s raining rather heavily again)… and, hold on... whey hey, she’s in… and, it seems, rather pleased she’s not being asked to turn out to pick me up, as she’s just enjoyed the nice piece of fillet steak with the wine I got in for her. However, had I known the call would cost me £4.60 (probably via India - 'tankyou wery much'), I would, in retrospect, most certainly have cut the small talk…

     So, back in the pub, it’s all sorted! Calories and Comfort with a capital 'c'… ah, what a wimp-out… marvelous! And look… warm radiators… and: he, he! pillows softer and more ample than any bosom.

Author's Note

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