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.