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.”

“Yes, this is something else mind.”

“You’ll be back then.”