New Years Day, woke with a rainbow over Lightwood. Late morning was a walk up to Lose Hill and part way along the Great Ridge from Castleton.
It was a muddy kind of day with a fair bit of slip sliding away on the way up. Proper windy too with mild peril to Sid’s chest fur and left ear.
Worth it mind. The ridge separates Hope and Edale valleys and the views are spectacular. More handy flagstones lead to Mam Tor at the far end and the sun pitched up to shine the way.
First bit of 2023 learning was about Windy Wappins, Breedy Butts and medieval topography remnants. Who knew?
Back in town, Castleton was winning Christmas style.
And it was fall back in time time at Castleton Garage where the owner was having a cheeky read of ‘Light Car’.
“Do you mind if I take your photo?”
“Er, no.” [Chuckles]
“You just look so at home in here.”
“That’s because I’ve been here forever.”
POSTSCRIPT PRACTICALITIES: Sheep every which way on this walk so dog on a lead.
Back to Shining Tor today, 2 miles from Buxton in the Goyt Valley. A steady ascent to 600 metres on a slabbed path apparently airlifted from abandoned mills in the Pennines to save the environment being ruined by walkers. The views along the way take in pretty much every Peak in the Peak District, Manchester, Cheshire and further with some blisteringly clear moments and the odd rainbow.
Weather was a bit changeable with freeze your socks off stuff at the top. At the trig point by the dry stone wall was what looked like a large fishing road and a shorter pole stuck in the ground a few feet away.
A man was huddled behind the wall bundled in clothing with an array of equipment laid out on the ground next to him.
“Morning, do you mind me asking what this is?!”
“Amateur radio. I’m chatting to people on the top of other mountains. It’s been my hobby forever.”
“Wow, what other mountain tops?”
“Right now Portugal and Greece, it’s not such good conditions today though. I was up here on Tuesday, just above the cloud and I was chatting to someone in Australia. You’d be surprised, there are always people on mountain tops around the world chatting to each other. Mostly nerds like me!”
This is possibly my favourite Peak moment. Just imagining people on mountain tops, randomly chatting to other enthusiasts across the world.
The circular walk continued across to join a sweep of a path that goes from the Errwood Reservoir to the Cat and Fiddle distillery halfway between Buxton and Macclesfield. The sun came out, Sid ran out of dogs who tried to savage him and it was back down to the start.
The weekend ‘pick any one of a 1000 walks within 15 miles’ delight I’m not sure will ever wear thin. Today Hathersage (pronounced HATHsuge I think after chatting with a few locals) and a walk to Stanage Edge. Thick fog and no knowledge about the destination. A long week and some rage and sighs to blast away.
The impossibly picturesque town was preparing for a Remembrance Sunday procession with gatherings in the car park by the open air pool, drummers and marshalls. Walking along an alleyway, we came to a field with a cricket square in the middle.
“Make sure you don’t let your dog on the edges of the cricket pitch!” called a dog walker who caught us up. “Old Mrs Atkinson lives in that house there with the big windows. You know, Atkinson’s from Sheffield. She rings a large bell if she sees a dog on the pitch. Like this…”
She mimed ringing a large bell slowly, up and down, laughing.
Sid remained on his lead. Talk moved onto Stanage.
“Oh, I’ll show you, it’s just up… oh, it’s disappeared in the fog.” She pointed the way and headed off towards the church.
The path went across fields, past a manor house, across a road and eventually followed a river, and a right hand turn into a wood . And up.
The mist, fog or cloud was haunting. Thickening and clearing, leaving traces. Eerie in the land where Jane Eyre was written, I thought this was Stanage Edge until we came out on the road and the mist lifted. In the distance like a scene from Westworld, was the Edge, climbers peppering the 20 metre cliff face with tiny coloured helmets.
Wow.
There was quite some way still to get to the top. The mist danced with the sun and Sid disrupted my photo of the tiny jewels woven through the winter grasses.
The top. What to say? Serious climbing smarts, clouds, mist, fog, hints of breathtaking views. Beyond the Edge a moor as far as you could see in every direction.
I’m not good with heights (really not good) so the few parts where the path went close to the edge (probably several feet away) was queasiness. The contemplation and commitment involved in climbing though is fascinating. There was a lot of climbing assemblage.
At the far end, a wide path led back down, across moorland to the road and back up and down another hill or two to Hathersage.
Seven or eight miles later and an almost tired Sid we were nearly back at the town where Little John is buried. We got chatting with another dog walker.
“Do you live here?”
“No, moved to Buxton about a year ago. Do you?”
“Yes, I’ve lived here for 57 years. I was born here, went to school here and lived here all my life. I’ve never been to Buxton though. You must have some stunning scenery there.”
Today was largely about a five mile round schlep from Wildboarclough to Shutlingsloe Hill and back via Macclesfield Forest. I blink at these names, heady still on the freshest of fresh air. An elderly man with a walking stick and wide brimmed hat was making his way steadily down the almost vertical in places path up to Shutlingsloe.
“Not too bad today. It’s quite dry.”
Blowy mind.
A 360 degree view of peaks, Cheshire hills and plain, dry stone walled fields, autumnal colouring, the dazzlingly white Jodrell Bank, tiny high rise buildings in Manchester, dotted sheep and a trig point. And that enormous open sky again. Heavy cloud coverage with slowly moving threadbare patches allowing sunnage to showcase random areas.
Over the top and down the other side. Deep steps and a heavy flag stone path to Macclesfield Forest. Follow the yellow brick road.
“Shut the fuck up.”
shouted Connor during Tom’s school performance of The Wizard of Oz. Rich took him home in the interval.
Into the forest.
Toadstool riches. And more.
Behind the Ranger Centre by Trentabank Reservoir, the Forest Food Snug. A weekend family run food van demonstrating the deliciousness that can be served from a tiny space with good humour, ingredients and food knowledge.
The final couple of miles involved dinosaurs and recently shorn alpacas.
Two young men were looking lost near the car park.
“Do you know if there’s a pub round here?”
Shrug city. Not seen one though there is a sign for the Crag Inn off the main road.
Back to everyday blogging. A leap I didn’t anticipate or think about before today. Where to start? Peak life. Where the weather turns on the spin of a coin, tiny frogs scramble out of the pond in mid September and there is a freshness to the air that defies description.
Today a five mile walk around the Goyt Valley two miles from Buxton. Following this trail. With varying cloud coatings.
It’s taken quite some fannying around setting up this blog [I know]. MyDaftLife probably involved the same ‘one step forward/delete’ process back in the day with less options. I would have done it with a cacophony background of family life (love) and the extraneous shit families with disabled children are forced to deal with.
I yearn for those days. Not the shit mind, that simply becomes more and more baffling.
When Connor died, a neighbour who had a grandchild in Rosie’s class told me she had a daughter who died in her 20s and the pain eased with time. I couldn’t understand how she had never said she had a child who died, how she didn’t blurt it out to everyone she met, how it wasn’t etched all over her being. I couldn’t understand how Rosie’s mate had an auntie they would never meet and took no comfort from her words. Talk to the hand, missy (I howled in my head) this unimaginable pain is going nowhere. Ever. How could it?
She was right. Over years the pain has imperceptibly shifted into a deep love I carry in my heart and hold ferociously, leaving only moments of breathtaking pain. That is quite something.
As are these hills.
[Photos taken on the way to the start of the walk in the rain, looking back walking up from the reservoir, ahead up the path, ahead further up the path towards Cheshire, and left to the Cat and Fiddle pass to Macclesfield.]
My Peak Life 
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