Travelling
at rush hour, not that you would know it was rush hour in downtown Leek, meant
the sat nav sent us on a roundabout route to the start of the walk and we didn’t
actually start walking until 8:50, somewhat behind our intended schedule. Thankfully the temperature hadn’t started
building yet and the initial section along the Tissington Trail was nicely
sheltered under trees. Jill was having a
short walk along the trail too, before popping into the café and then driving
off to meet us at the morning re-fuelling stop.
Every
now and then the trees by the Trail would clear and we could look out at the
gentle countryside of the south Peaks.
Sheep were clustered at the sides of fields, huddling in what shade they
could. It may not yet have been 10am but
as we left the Trail at Thorpe, we too found ourselves feeling the heat of the
day. From Thorpe we dropped down into
Dove Dale, passing below Thorpe Cloud and joining the river by the stepping
stones. There were a number of people
about enjoying the weather, including several groups of kids doing their Duke
of Edinburgh Award hike. The young folk
all seemed polite and friendly, despite having to hump massively overstuffed
rucksacks with them. Meanwhile I was
getting away with a small lumbar pack (cue ‘I’m a lumbar pack and I’m ok’).
The
walk along Dove Dale was lovely. Sunlight
filtered through the trees, the path wound below rugged crags, the clear stream
chattered past, and fish hung suspended in the water. It was idyllic. Approaching Milldale, a woman coming the
other way said, ‘Here they are. She’s
waiting for you by the bridge.’ Clearly
she had been chatting with Jill. We
waved from the bridge as we arrived, bang on time – I had predicted 11am and it
was 11:02. There were toilets and
drinking water, and we also sat down to get some food; breakfast seemed a long
time ago. After 20 minutes relaxation we
set off again, though I had a niggling worry about the sole of my left
foot. I was wearing fairly new walking
shoes, as was Martin, and I wasn’t completely sure they would cope with the
distance. I stuck with them for the time
being.
There
was more idyllic riverside walking, including spotting the momentary blue flash
of a kingfisher, before we turned off up Biggin Dale. The ground got a bit rockier, which meant us
getting sweatier, and we had to seek out a little shade under the scattered
hawthorn trees. It was steadily uphill
most of the way, until it finished with a sting in the tail. Just a short, sharp climb – the first of the
day – but it left us puffing and Pete in particular was feeling the heat. The climb took us onto a gravel track through
a patchwork of fields that rose and fell around us. It was easy walking and a soft breeze helped
with the temperatures. Nevertheless it
was thirsty work. As we came to the
outskirts of Biggin, Martin casually pointed out that there was a pub marked on
the map. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the
Waterloo. Nice place.’ It quickly turned out that the consensus was
for a refreshment stop. We sat inside to
escape the sun and supped our beers like we were rehearsing for ‘Ice Cold in
Alex’. As we were readying to leave, the
barmaid asked what we were having next.
We had to make our apologies, we had to get on.
It
was a bit of struggle to get going again but boosted by our beery beverages we
were soon marching up the road, along a dusty track by fields of ripening
wheat, and onto the High Peak Trail.
This was flat and straight, and turned into a bit of a slog in the
heat. Stomp, stomp, stomp. By now I was less worried by my left foot
than by the heel of my right foot. I
feared the worst – a blister – and was looking forward to taking the weight off
my feet at the next stop at Friden. Coming
into the car park there, we found Jill fast asleep on the grass under the shade
of the trees. We flopped down on the
grass too, only about 20 minutes behind my predicted schedule. In a conspiracy of silence we didn’t admit to
our extra stop to our snoozy but patient support driver.
Martin
took a powernap too while Pete and I fuelled up. I peeled off my shoes and had a look at my
heel. Red but no blister. All the same I switched into my boots, which
I had presciently put into the car as a precaution, and they felt much better. There was no water source at Friden but the
bottles we had stored in the coolbox in the car were pleasantly chilled
still. A few Tangfastics and a chunk of
flapjack served as dessert.
There
was no time to sit around digesting food though. We were over halfway, 25km into the 40 or so,
but had lots more ground to cover. We
turned down into Long Dale and, at first, switched from side to side of the
valley trying to find some shade.
Further on the trees disappeared altogether, as did the breeze that had
been keeping the edge off the temperatures.
On the top path a group of cows and calves spotted us and seemed to
think that it was milking time. They
trotted up the hill and marched on ahead of us, except for a couple of
latecomers who mooed along behind and seemed nervous to overtake. Eventually they went left up the fields,
calling as they went, while we dropped the other way down into the valley.
Long
Dale is a very pretty place, full of wildflowers and butterflies –
fritillaries, common blues, brown arguses and burnet moths – but it is very
aptly named. The sun beat down, the air
stood heavy, the path kept going. We
were fairly roasted by the time we turned down Gratton Dale – not much shorter
than Long Dale, it felt – and I started feeling slightly out of it, in a
trancelike state. Not quite an
out-of-body experience, but somehow detached.
Arriving at the road in Gratton, 32km (20 miles) behind us, I sat down
on a bench to grab some more Tangfastics and get myself together. The others plumped down too and we sat a
while, watching the monster vehicles of the local plutocrats trundle down the
narrow lanes.
It
seemed a struggle for us to get going again.
It was still 4km before the afternoon stop in Youlgreave and 6km more to
the finish after that. I did my best to
rally the troops with thoughts of the Bull’s Head, our next meeting point, and
eventually we staggered back to our feet once more and marched on up the
road. We had reached a section I wasn’t
too familiar with, though I had walked it in the opposite direction a number of
years ago, and we made our first navigational blunder, choosing the wrong one
of the two unmarked exits from a farmyard.
The friendly resident dog wasn’t much help at giving directions but it
was more than happy to receive a stroke and a pat or two.
Beyond
the farm were open, shelterless, sun-beaten fields, shorn of the hay that had
been growing there that spring. It was a
great relief to return to the shade of the trees as we reached the valley of
the River Bradford below Middleton. I
guessed at 10 minutes to Youlgreave – more wishful thinking as it ended up
being around 20. The village took
forever to arrive and it took a huge effort of will to keep plodding on, rather
than just sitting on the ground and refusing to budge, like a toddler having a
tantrum, which was what my instinct to do actually was. A number of people were also walking by the
river – normally a beautiful place, but now just a long way to walk – and a heavily
tattooed women, spotting our tee-shirts, read out loud, ‘We are
Macmillan.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we are.’
Finally,
after another short, sharp, lung-busting climb, we arrived at the pub. Jill was in the bar and we quickly ordered
some refreshing drinks. It was airless
inside and the sweat was pouring off us, but we wanted to be out of the
sun. ‘You’re looking a bit done in,’
Jill observed, kindly.
Before
leaving the pub – no rest for the wicked – Pete and I got the barmaid to fill
our water bottles with iced water.
Lovely. As it was the shortest
leg of the walk next, we dumped as much gear as we could in the car and Martin
switched from shoes to sandals in order to give his battered feet a break. I assured him the rest of the walk was over
easy terrain – something which, thankfully, proved true. We dropped down into a pretty valley with a
cute stone bridge by a lily pond, then climbed up a nicely graded path through
some woods. At the top an unofficial
sign warned us, ‘There is ONE right of way across the field.’ It wasn’t clear where this unique but elusive
right of way was, so we just marched across as best as we could and handily
found ourselves at the gate on the far side.
Turning uphill and reaching a minor road, we met two middle-aged women who
had taken a completely different line across the field and appeared beside us
from a different gateway. ‘One way’
indeed. Apparently they were going to
Bakewell, some 3km away, though they were hardly dressed for a long walk,
wearing flip-flops and with no obvious water bottles or indeed any bags of any
sort.
We
stomped off – finally, unarguably, definitively with no more uphill – along
Intake Lane, down to the outskirts of Bakewell.
At the main road there was a handy path through the suburbs to a park by
the river and then into the town centre.
There, at last, was the Red Lion, our destination. It was 19:43, almost 11 hours since we began,
41.1km (according to my GPS) under our boots.
Jill
was waiting in the shady beer garden. We
dropped our bags and awarded ourselves, not a medal as we received last year on
the official Mighty Hike, but with three pints of Chatsworth Gold. Rachael, Louisa and Boo the dog soon joined
us and we all congratulated ourselves.
The pub had stopped serving food so we foraged some fish, sausages or
cheese and onion pies and chips from the nearby chippy, eating them by the
river, then returned to have some more celebratory pints.
There
was a tangible sense of achievement and a feeling of joy at having completed
the route. It had been a great day. The arrangements had worked well, the scenery
had been gorgeous. It had been hard work
in the heat and we all felt tired but we were pleased with our day’s work. We had raised lots of money for a great
cause. Job done.
