Day Twenty One

Monday 8 February 2010 - Hathersage to Edale.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. As I lay in bed the previous evening, I mused on the fact that I had six hours today to walk from Hathersage to Edale, there to catch the first of three trains back to London. And since it was only nine miles it meant that, even allowing for the climb over Hollin's Cross from Castleton to Edale, I had plenty of time to spare. And Stanage Edge was just a mile or so away.

The map confirmed that I could easily take in about a mile and a half of the edge without mucking up my pre-planned route entirely. The day was grey - no surprises there. When I went down for my breakfast, the lady cleaning the pub bar told me that there was a bit of snowy, sleety stuff in the air. By the time I set off there was no more than an icy drizzle.

From the pub, a lane snaked up the hill to the North East of Hathersage, until I left it for a steep climb on a field path towards Stanage Edge. Stanage is "the largest and most impressive of the gritstone edges. Visible from miles away down in the Hope Valley, it stretches for a length of approximately 3.5 miles from its northern tip at Stanage End to the southern point near the Cowper Stone. At about its mid-point the edge is crossed by Long Causeway, the old Roman road from Navio (Brough) to Doncaster. It is a famous location for rock-climbing and a popular spot for walkers." (Peak District Information)

The snow started in earnest when I was walking up the final path to the edge itself. It wasn't the soft, glistening sort of snow - it was sharp and icy, carried horizontally by the increasing wind. This was going to be a nuisance, but would it be dangerous? A year ago, less one day, I had broken my ankle on slippery mud. It might look self-indulgent to mark the anniversary by slipping off Stanage Edge. But like many sea cliff paths, the track was well back from the often sheer drop. It was rocky, and needed care, but no worse for being 1300 feet up. And the views? Well, they were very similar to those from High Tor two days ago. I could just about make out the snow-drifted, rocky wasteland below the edge but, apart from that, zilch. However, with spectacular rock formations appearing from and disappearing into the gloom, it was spectacular nonetheless.

I gather that this used to be a private grouse moor (the land to my right was a typical moorland, sloping gently away from the edge). Since it was opened to climbers and walkers, it has suffered from erosion, so that the bare rock I was walking on would have had a soil cover, now gone. The puddles between the rocks were frozen solid, as were drifts from previous, much bigger, snowfalls. The best bit about the weather was that the strong wind was blowing away any of the low cloud which might have obscured the edge itself.

About a mile on, I met the old Roman road (see above). After following the edge for a while, the old road cuts down through the rocks at a gentle angle. I followed it, glad to have experienced this iconic place, even in near-zero visibility. This detour had sucked up most of my spare time, so it was important to press on towards Edale.

First up was Bamford, which I reached along a byway which became steeper and steeper until I almost fell into the village itself. A quick saunter down the main street took me to a footpath to the mill, and my last crossing of the River Derwent, my faithful companion for the last five days. The Derwent Valley Heritage Way, which I had been mostly following, ends a few hundred yards upriver at Ladybower Reservoir, into and out of which the river flows. As if to reprimand me for deserting it, the river played one last trick. Looking at the map, I had envisaged a simple footbridge, but not a bit of it. From a concrete platform there is firstly a short stretch bridged by three parallel, slithery planks of wood. These connect to a series of stepping stones, more planks , and only then a narrow footbridge. An interesting beginning and end for the dog walkers of Bamford.

A soggy field path crossed the flood plain, then I climbed the valley side to cross into the Hope Valley. More footpaths and a stretch of unbusy road took me to the village of Hope, of which I saw very little. To make further progress, I had to cut South almost as soon as I entered the village street, but not before I had bought and eaten my lunch, in the village shop and the church porch, respectively.

The weather had by now returned to placid greyness. After crossing the River Noe, I turned West on a well-marked and well-walked path across fields to Castleton. The former Blue Circle (now Lafarge) cement works is a constant presence in this valley. It's obtrusive but not really offensive. A dull grey colour, like its product, the works is connected to the outside world by a railway line which joins the Manchester-Sheffield line.

I saw as little of Castleton as I had of Hope. On previous (Summer) visits, the village centre had been bustling with walkers. I didn't go into the centre today, but I bet it wasn't very bustling. I turned North for my final climb of the day, up to Hollin's Cross. Between the two arms of the Hope Valley runs the Great Ridge, one the most popular places in the Peak District. Whether they start with Black Tor in the East, or Mam Tor (the highest spot) in the West, most walkers probably then walk along the ridge to the nodal point, Hollin's Cross, the crossroads for paths and bridleways in a saddle of the ridge.

I expected to be alone there, but as I reached it by climbing up from Castleton, a couple were approaching along the ridge from the West. The man told me that they had been staying in Castleton, and that their trip was a bit of enjoyable training for a charity challenge ascent of a Munro in the summer. I wished him the best of luck with that. As the couple headed down by the route I had taken up, I carried on North West towards Edale.

A board had informed me that I was walking (not for the first time) a coffin route. The dear departed from (then churchless) Edale were lugged up and down this hill to Castleton. The highest point on the route (Hollin's Cross) is slightly higher than the 1300 feet I had reached at Stanage Edge, so I was glad not to have the corner of a coffin to carry.

The path down was at first stony and then soggy, and finally quite muddy. A few miserable-looking sheep and cows surveyed the devastation they had caused with their hooves. A short stretch of road took me to Edale station.

Day Twenty

Sunday 7 February 2010 – Matlock to Hathersage.

My b&b was just a minute’s walk from the old bridge in Matlock. From here my path squeezed between the river and a new by-pass road which carries the A6 over the river a few hundred yards North.

I knew I was near the start of Peak Rail, a steam railway running from Matlock (the point at which National Rail services terminate) nearly four miles to Rowsley South (of which more later). Confirmation came in the form of a medium-sized steam loco drifting serenely past a few feet above me. It was too early for tourists, and there were no carriages attached to the loco, so maybe its task was to check the line; it proceeded to chug the length of the line and back again while I plodded on, sometimes near the railway and sometimes not.

Darley Dale is not so much a village as a federation of villages and hamlets well spread across the river valley. Sir Joseph Whitworth, the engineering pioneer, lived here for fifteen years at Stancliffe Hall, now a school. At Darley Bridge I crossed to the East bank of the river and headed across the fields to Churchtown, where I passed the aforementioned Rowsley South Station. Until the enthusiasts can make progress in extending the railway, it finishes here at what was a goods yard. The operative word in the station name is “South”; Rowsley itself is nearly a mile further on.

Extending the railway would be a mixed blessing – the corridor which it would occupy is currently a pleasant woodland walk near the river. At Rowsley I crossed the river again. From this point on it was heavy traffic all the way. I’m used to passing the occasional other walker, often with a dog when a village is near. But on this Sunday scores of people had chosen to walk up and down the Derwent valley, some of them walking dogs, other walking their relations, and others again earning their Duke of Edinburgh’s Awards. The D of E lot walked in groups of four or more, one in each group with a map dangling from his/her neck, disdaining to show any actual enthusiasm for their walk.

I drew alongside a large, well-filled car park. This was the start of the Chatsworth Estate and, more immediately, served the Chatsworth Garden Centre. I had been tipped off that the café here was a good lunch spot but, with the weather closing in, cars and their occupants were clearly descending on the place from miles around. It was anyway a bit early for lunch, so I pointed my muddy boots North again and entered the park.

Dukes of Devonshire have had their ups and downs with walkers but, in 1991 the then Duke declared that everyone was welcome in his “back garden”, and now they go out of their way to put out the welcome mat. So any oik can spoil the view from the drawing room by wandering around the park. This oik continued Northwards on the West bank of the river, crossing (for the third time today) to the East bank at the bridge near the house (you know the one – it’s in all the pictures).

The house itself came and went in the fog. The North wall seems to be completely covered in off-white plastic. A mile or so North of the bridge I left the park at Baslow. I bought my lunch from a tiny shop by the car park and ate it on the village green (pork pie, chicken cup-a-soup and an apple – a feast at £2.07).

Guess what I did then. Yep, that’s right – I crossed the river again, for the fourth time. The next village I passed was Calver, but I can’t remember anything about it. I do remember that lots of work has been done just North of Calver to encourage rare newts – Ken would be pleased. When I reached Froggatt Bridge, I just ignored it. Only kidding – I crossed it of course (crossing number five). Spooner Lane is apparently an old packhorse track. It is paved with flagstones, which now stick up at odd angles, and some of the route is shared with a stream. There is a break in the paving, but it resumes for a rollercoaster path through two lovely bits of woodland owned by the National Trust.

At Grindleford I did not need to cross the bridge to continue my walk. But the café was the other side of the river, so crossings six and seven were separated by delicious coffee and something (lemon drizzle cake, if you must know – scrumptious).

While I was ambling through another National Trust wood, a train went past, high up the valley. This was no steam train, but rather a humble diesel unit on the Manchester to Sheffield line which I was to carry me off the following day. Some more field paths and a quiet lane took me into Hathersage on what was by now a very grey day.

Day Nineteen

Saturday 6 February 2010 – Belper to Matlock.

Saturday shopping was in full swing in Belper. But I headed out of town, passing a huge mill and crossing Belper Bridge to the West bank of the Derwent. A narrow, trafficless lane petered out to become a track, and then a footpath struck half left, up the valley side into the fog.

Fog or very low cloud (if there’s a difference) covered the valley tops all day, frequently spilling down towards the river. There was no sign of the sun, but also no rain. Another quiet lane, and then a soggy woodland path, led back down the valley to a bridge crossing the river into Ambergate. The cricket pitch was a sorry sight, a lake occupying the square. A friendly café was the chosen meeting-place for a large contingent from the BBC – the Belper Bicycle Club. But there was room for a walker to enjoy coffee and something, while the brightly-clad cyclists waddled about in shoes which are made for cycling rather than stylish walking! Cheerful banter continued as bacon rolls and mugs of tea were polished off.

A short way along the main road, I turned to cross the railway and find the towpath of the Cromford Canal. Originally built to connect Cromford (of which more later) with the midlands canal network at Langley Mill (near the Notts/Derbyshire border), its building was attended by all the usual manoeuvring for advantage by supporters and opponents. The need for a tunnel added immensely to the cost.

What is left today is a sleepy, weedy shadow of its former self, but a very pleasant route for my walk. It was never quite peaceful – traffic noise is incessant. The reason is clear. Wedged between the Derwent and the steeper upper slopes of the valley are the main road, the railway and the canal, with the canal tens of feet higher than the railway and the road lower still. A leak in the canal would be very inconvenient. Notices warned of closures to the towpath and, although the path was fully open today, there was evidence of recent work. Vehicle tracks had churned up the surface of the path in places, and trees had been felled. According to more notices, Nanny had decided that the trees were threatening other wildlife in and around the canal. I thought trees were wildlife, but what do I know? At Cromford the canal ends in a small basin, the area dominated by a large car park. One of the canalside buildings is an excellent café which provided my lunch. Across the road from the canal basin are Arkwright’s mills.

The Derbyshire UK website tells me that “Richard Arkwright and his partners established a mill in Cromford in 1771 and without delay set about perfecting the machinery and production methods for water-powered cotton spinning. The first mill was modest in size, but in 1776 a second and very much larger mill was established using the same water supply. Soon after, the mill site expanded again and massive engineering work was undertaken, to create the system of ponds and underground culverts which maintained Arkwright's increasing need for water to drive his machinery.”

The rise and fall of the mills is well covered elsewhere. Thirty years ago, when they were acquired by the Arkwright Society, the buildings had been used for everything from brewing to paint manufacture. The society is intent on restoring the mills to their former glory. After all of which, I found a visit disappointing. If you don’t book for a tour (and I was lacking time, quite apart from my allergy to tours), you can admire the outsides of the handsome buildings, pop into the visitor centre, and then you are left with a series of retail opportunities. So I walked up the hill to the village itself.

As a website I glanced at put it, Cromford is "not at first sight a pretty village." Indeed. It has a rather sombre pond at its centre. Without a long diversion, the only way to Matlock Bath was along the main road (it’s not always the same main road, you understand – I use the term generically). A few minutes from Cromford I passed Masson Mill, another of Arkwrights mills, which today includes a textile museum and a shopping village. I’m not against shopping – I can shop with the best of them – but retail does tend to eclipse history round here. Matlock Bath was “developed, in the 1800s, as a spa town and still thrives on tourism. It is often said that Matlock Bath is like a seaside town without the sea due to the number of fish and chip shops and amusement arcades.” Thanks, Wikipedia – you’ve nailed it. It’s not unpleasant (bearing in mind that I walked through on a foggy February day), but it’s clearly more kiss-me-quick than stylish spa resort. Hidden mercifully somewhere up in the hills is Gulliver’s Kingdom, a theme park.

The cable-car ride to the Heights of Abraham was not operating on this wintery day. A pity, really – a trip up into the clouds would have been tempting, although possibly only to me. I walked past the Swiss chalet-style cable car station to climb up to High Tor, a noted local viewpoint. It used to be privately-owned, with a charge to enter, but now it’s owned by the council and is free. I don’t blame the council for the view I got: I have never seen a more impressively thick fog bank. I could just about see the road below and a few houses lining it, but that was it. A gentle descent and another short but steep climb took me to Pic Tor, with its ponderous war memorial. Dropping down again, I entered Matlock through what was, in the fog, an atmospheric graveyard. While Matlock Bath is given over to frivolity, Matlock is its serious older brother, home to the county council, with decorous gardens by the river for those who insist on enjoying themselves.

Day Eighteen

Friday 5 February 2010– Shardlow to Belper.

The overnight rain had passed on, leaving another dank, foggy day. From Shardlow a quiet lane ran North to Ambaston, hardly a village. The only interest came from an off-white, boxy new house under construction, a stark contrast with the brick cottage next door. An alley between gardens took me to a footpath across soggy fields to the bank of the Derwent.

So just to recap: I had followed the Soar as it flowed North to its junction with the Trent, crossed the Trent at Shardlow, and had now picked up the Derwent to walk North against its flow for the next four days. Got that? Good.

Across the river, near Borowash Bridge, another big power station brooded in the fog, A constant dull roar of traffic indicated just how many busy roads cris-cross this plain, linking Derby, Nottingham, Leicester and their satellites to the rest of the country. My non-busy route was heading West and slightly North towards Derby.

They guard their fishing rights jealously in these parts – thousands of pounds must be spent on warning signs. A new bridge (not on my map) and a small army of diggers pushing earth around indicated a new development – too early to tell whether it is to be residential or commercial. In fact a large percentage of Derby seems to be in the process of moving around in the buckets of diggers or dumper trucks. The wreckage of old factories, warehouses and offices is being cleared, the ground prepared for the new.

The river and the path snake around Pride Park, home to Derby County Football Club, but mostly consisting of offices and warehouses. Although it has been a major commercial centre for centuries, Derby only got city status in 1977, as one of a batch promoted to mark the 25th anniversary of the Queen’s accession. And yet All Saints Church became a cathedral in 1927. How does that work? The river flows very close to the centre, providing me with the chance to divert fifty yards to the arthouse cinema for lunch. The cinema (and mediateque!) is housed in an ultra-modern building which contrasts rather provocatively with the older buildings in the main square, including a magnificent market hall which is like a smaller version of the train shed at St Pancras (this is not surprising – they were opened within two years of each other).

After lunch, I set off up the river again, past the cathedral, towards Darley Abbey. Little remains of the abbey itself. The only standing building is now a pub. Since it is thought to have been the guest house for pilgrims in the 13th Century, there is a pleasing continuity here! The park leading to the village of Darley Abbey sweeps rather majestically down to the river bank. The hall of which the park once formed the grounds has gone, but the mill which provided the wealth of the hall’s owner, William Evans, survives. It is now divided into business units and flats. By the mill I crossed the river to the East side and trotted across a series of waterlogged paths.

One stretch of my intended route was being ploughed up as I approached, but a satisfactory alternative led me to a tunnel beneath a cross-river main road. Annoying, there was no easy alternative to a mile-long slog along a cycle track by a road into Little Eaton. Here things looked up. A back lane led to – gasp! – a hill! I tried to remember the last hill I had climbed on this trip, but in vain. As usual, the climb came with a reward of views, this time across the river valley. Chimneys poked up through the trees, the fog lingering despite the sunshine.

A lovely amble across water meadows led to Duffield Bridge, and then back on to a quiet road which climbed (again!) diagonally up the valley side. Leaving the road at Makeney, I started to collect serious amounts of mud on my boots and trousers as I made my way across a series of especially-gooey fields to Belper, which I reached, rather depressingly, through a large car park. The usual snarl-up of traffic spoiled the street scene, and a handsome square was littered with cars abandoned just anywhere. But two superb churches within a hundred yards of each other were a much more cheerful sight in the now strong sunshine.

Day Seventeen

Thursday 4 February 2010 – Loughborough to Shardlow.

A grey, dank day. As my train drew into Loughborough station, it was drizzling. I popped into the gents, changed into my waterproofs and emerged just as the rain stopped. There were no more than a few spots all day.

I could have picked up the Soar Navigation towpath immediately, but the journey would be no longer through the town centre, so I went for a look. Loughborough is a solid sort of place. Market Harborough, the first place I walked through in Leicestershire, is definitely a “county” town, but Loughborough, the last, is distinctly urban, more midlands-industrial than goods-to-market. The church is handsome but not exciting, and the shopping streets are either pedestrianised or choked with traffic. Heading North, I reached the modest canal basin, and soon I was back on the towpath.

A graceful willow adorned an otherwise graceless trading estate on the outskirts of town. Soon I was in fields, flat and featureless. I climbed no hills all day, the flood plain of the Soar merging with that of the Trent. Interest came from the man-made rather than the natural. The Soar itself was interesting for what had been done to it. A board by one of the locks informed me that the canalisation of the waterways linking Erewash pit to Leicestershire had halved the price of coal in Loughborough. Signs warned boaters not to proceed if the water rose above a certain level – it was very close to the danger point.

Ahead, the roar of a jet engine came from East Midlands Airport, while behind me an amplified announcement reduced to a murmur by distance came from a clump of factories. At Normanton on Soar, a very fine church and a succession of “des res”s line the bank opposite the towpath. A few hundred yards on, the path follows the Zouch Cut past the eponymous village, while the river crashes over a weir to pass the other side of the village. River and canal were soon reunited, running North to Kegworth, which lies beneath the flight path for East Midlands Airport. In 1989, a Boeing 737 flew over Kegworth, fell short of the airport and crashed into the embankment of the M1 motorway. Miraculously no vehicles on the road were near the crash site, but 47 people died on the plane.

I lunched in a friendly pub on the outskirts of Kegworth which had two other customers and – unsurprisingly – a board outside offering to let the business. A pity; I liked it. They laughed at the idea that they might object to my muddy boots – “We’ve got a cleaner!”

There is a break in the walkable towpath North of Kegworth, but I didn’t care, as I was intent on cutting the corner between the Soar and the Trent, and then on to the Derwent. I joined the Midshires Way, which took me by path, bridleway and lanes to the banks of the Trent. The elephant in this particular room is Ratcliffe Power Station. Its forest of chimneys and cooling towers, their steam merging with the natural murk, dominated the dead flat landscape. Last year demonstrators tried unsuccessfully to close the power station on environmental grounds.

At Sawley, I skirted a large marina to head West along the bank of the Trent. The direct route to Shardlow whould have been straight on along the Trent & Mersey Canal, but a key bridge had been demolished and, while a lot of squabbling goes on about its replacement, this non-swimmer followed the meanders of the river to Shardlow, once a major inland port and still a boaty sort of place.