Peak District Crikey Hike 2018

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.