Suffolk meanderings (I).

Part One: Winter & Spring walking - Livermere,West Stow & the Fornhams.

 

Three & a half miles from home - towards West Stow.

 

Leaving Bury St Edmunds north-west, and slowly the traffic calms once off the A1101 and onto the slighty more sedate B1106.  This corner of Tollgate Bridge has a marked sign for a friary on the OS map, yet all we can see is a Best Western hotel.  Anyhow, over the river Lark and up into the village of Fornham St Martin.  Having visited before in January, I march onwards to the junction of Fornham St Genevieve & the crossroads where the trees hold a colony of Rooks.  When I last came here the Fornham villages were soaked in a heavy mist and, the caws of the plentiful Corvus Frugilegus gave this road junction a sinister air, less so today - the sun is gleaming through the cracked clouds.

 

The Fornham Rooks, in the January mists.

 

I forge my walk ahead, towards a fork in the road towards Culford & West Stow.  There remains enough traffic to make me leap into a ditch every few minutes so, this deters me going directly to Culford, instead I branch left along the more sedate woodland road to West Stow.  I am alone on a track amongst the trees of Dixons covert.  I pass one oriental gentleman wobbling on a bicycle with his shopping bags wavering precariously; on each handle-bar.  He takes me by surprise with his silent approach & catches me trying-out folk songs sang falsetto; I mutter an embarrassed hello.

 

Dixons covert - West Stow.

 

The woodland is all-engulfing.  An occasioned ruffle of life amidst the forest floor leaves - a rabbit.  I see no Dear here today, but grouse are in good numbers.  Soon I am on the approach to West Stow, as the map promises. Revealed within the woodland is the church of St Mary.  The name Stow defines an ancient holy place to the Anglo-Saxons and arriving here today feels much like it would have in the medieaval; I could be here 6 centuries ago & this building & it's setting would be pretty much the same.  Sadly the church is locked and clouds threaten rain.  I have a drink from the rucksack & plot my route forward.

 

The church of St Mary, West Stow.

 

A footpath leads me directly through the parkland of Culford. Now a school occupies the grotesque victorian monster, it's one redeeming feature being a lovely thatched cricket pavillion; the grass today being tweaked to perfection by four groundsmen. I find the church (within the school grounds), it is also a Victorian hideosity, the confines of the churchyard are lined with plants and raked gravel paths, anchoring an aesthetic of municipal seaside gardens.  I have no time for it and scurry my way through the confusing school paths/sign-boards.  Onto the main road, I traverse eastwards across the massive open fields of Place Farm.  The route is a dusty, flint-strewn walk as winds shudder this great open expanse. The footpath exits through the farmyard buildings; I am always apprehensive about meeting a grisly farmer or worse - their dog! But, I am smiled at and talked too by the chaps in their John Deer overalls.  We are now in Ingham; a name both Saxon & Viking.  It is but a small cluster on the A134.  I do find the public house: The Cadogan Arms.  As I arrive it appears more restaurant, that I struggle to find the door which suggests bar.  There isn't one.  I push through and greeted immediately with false enthusiasms.  The pub is horrifically new, devoid of any atmosphere.  I ask for a ruby or dark beer.  "Sorry, we have none"; this is a pub directly owned by a Bury St Edmunds micro-brewery!  "We have Peroni, or Becks" suggests the bar-maid. "I will have an Aspalls Cider, Thank you". "Thats £4.20".  I have to pay the cider-rape fee and sit in this horror of a pub, whilst business lunchers gawpe at the specials board above my head.  I pop into the disabled toilet & on finishing mictruition, cannot help myself but write my disdain for the place & it's prices, on the a paper sanitory-towel disposal bag; I leave my declaration on the toilet mirror and exit with my own 'fake' goodbye.  Through the gates of Ampton Hall Park.

 

Ampton, St Peter & St Paul.

 

Ampton church (1589) - the graffiti of the 16th century.

 

Little Livermere & Ampton Water.

 

Across the parkland we emerge on the brink of Ampton Water with the ruinous church of Little Livermere, it's tower proud amongst the farm buildings.  The church of Ss Peter & Paul is said to have once been an excellent example of the Strwberry Gothick.  As much as the scene is transfixing I am steered eastwards to Great Livermere, the tower of St Peter peering out of the scrub.

 

Great Livermere, St Peter.

 

It was at Great Livermere that Monty Rhodes James grew-up as the son of the parish rector.  M. R James became a reverred Cambridge academic (Medievalist & Provost of Kings College) and one of our most esteemed writers of English ghost stories; many of which are grounded in the Suffolk landscape.  The setting here is seemingly timeless; like centuries have passed unchanging.  The church is locked (many are in N/W Suffolk), yet the sun eventually came to linger briefly and I chat for some minutes to a council gardener who, has come to strim the churchyard of its tall grasses.

 

Great Livermere.

 

I leave the churchyard and progress to the village green.  A bus-stop, in the midst of nowhere and it promises a bus directly back to Bury St Edmunds in twenty minutes time; a service that swings-by only several times per day.  I decide that I have walked enough, and rather than walk the miles home via Timworth, I decide upon this (chanced) lazier option.  Firstly I go into the disused telephone box and insepect the donated books, in what is now a rural 'book exchange'.  This is evidently a depository for un-wanted books (you know the kind), biographies of 20-something unknowns, Dick Francis, Mills & Boon and other un-wanted romantic fictions.  This idea in principle is rather nice, but seems to have become a tidy litter-bin for damp paper; I suppose it is better than what most British telephone boxes once were - urinals.   The bus comes along and, I am the sole passenger all the way back to Bury St Edmunds.., the driver seemed surprised that anybody at all put their hand out to stop and use this bus and, I feel extravagent in this over-sized chauffer-driven vehicle. 





 

Home: Bury St Edmunds:

The processional gateway into the Abbey (The Norman Tower). 



 











An English Seaside: The east coast; reflections on 1980s childhood holidays and beyond.

Candy-floss & beach goods: Felixstowe, Suffolk 2013.

 

Childhood memories of the English seaside evoke an array of 1970s caravans & chalets, shops that would wheel-out each morning racks of weather-warped postcards and the bleeps from the amusement arcades; lit-up bingo & crap prizes.  Then came the budget airlines that could take a family to some grisly foreign shore at a fraction of the cost than a stay in the aforementioned 1970s caravan.  My mother & I, at times recollect how as a family we would head east from Leicestershire in an Austin Allegro, four kids on the back-seat, two dogs and the obligatory (yet necessary) sick buckets (mostly for me).  We would go to the coast of Lincolnshire or Norfolk, on arrival Mum would cry at the hideosity of the chalet "Two fucking weeks in this!"; she would weep.  My sister (Claire) & I would take the room with the bunk beds.., I say room, I really mean a broom-cupboard with two mattressed-shelves; the top bunk allowing only a 1ft between bed and ceiling and we both had to sleep with our heads squeezed through the small windows simply to breathe.  The beds would be dressed with ancient itchy-wool blankets and sand from previous holiday-makers; fortunately, we were too young to understand what pubic hairs were.  Our parents bed took shape from some complex re-arranging of the sofa cushions and a winding-down of the lounge- table; often this became referred to as the dog-kennel.  Our parents would save-up for this each year.  It was a big deal; we HAD to enjoy ourselves.

 

Circa 1983 - Lincolnshire: My younger Brother & I playing by the sewage outlet pipe.

 

Our seaside resorts are changing.  If this is because of our countries economic crisis or simply towns desperately trying to survive/revive, who knows; even our crap Butlins have taken a vintage slant in their advertising; those barbed-wired aqua-prison camps are being presented to us in the modern age all anew; I blame Wayne Hemmingway for this with his crap vintage festival & firmly clinging to his working-class core; he can keep Butlins! 

 

 





Aldeburgh 2013 - The staging for Benjamin Brittens' Peter Grimes opera (on the beach).

 

Aldeburgh in Suffolk (on the other hand) has become the destination for middle-class Londoners; those in their 40s who now find Brighton just a little too much so, they parade Aldeburgh with swanky push-chairs allowing there un-disciplined children to roam; there are lots of daddys wearing their babies in those ruck-sack slings here, queuing for miles for the towns aclaimed fish & chips.  Heres the secret, Southwold is by far the better seaside town!  The pier at Southwold is gentified but not ruined; also Michael Palin hails from here.  There are no chavs or beastly peoples.  There is Adnams ales, Walberswick and nearby Dunwich heath/nature reserve.  Going North up the coast from here, it is recommended to bypass Lowestoft & Great Yarmouth and settle for Happisburgh, Mundesley & the treasure that is Sheringham.

 

Likely Hemsby (Norfolk) circa 1985: Me (on the right) wearing the mode du jour - tartan, elasticated jeans with plastic belt, a very camp lemon vest-top & the footwear of the mid 1980s, espidrilles of varying colours; I also note that I appear to carry a effete demeaner, my mother is donning a holiday perm hair-doo.  My siblings seem to be enjoying themselves.  The soundtrack to this holiday was The Bluebells (Young at heart) & Captain Sensible (Happy Talk) whilst sat in the back seat of the Allegro & its burning thighs on the leatherette seating. was this the year of Live Aid, quite likely!

 

Southwold (Suffolk) 2013 - Setting for Michael Palins' coming of age biopic east of Ipswich film.

 

Mundesley (Norfolk) 2013. Fare away from the maddening crowds, deserted sandy beaches, a clip-top pub and maintaining a proper village still; my friend Simon & his family came to live here a year ago.

 

Sheringham (Norfolk) 2013.  The summer heat-wave means many ditch their clothes & take to the sea.

 

Sheringham (Norfolk) 2013. The magnet of the sea.

 

Sheringham (Norfolk) 2013.

 

Sheringham on the North Norfolk coast is my own personal sea-haven.  It harbours no pretensions; it is an honest sort of place. The Lobster (Inn) is the better of the three pubs & serves delicious food/crab sandwiches.  There are two other pubs which sit on the cliff-tops with excellent views to sea.  Sheringham High street maintains a busy heart of the town with grocers, butchers, hardware store and the best seafood kiosk (Dressed Crab £2-4 dependent on size of crab & huge tubs of prawns for £3!).  There is a wondrous bric-a-brac/collectables/antiques shop, the Bure Valley railway & safe beach bathing with the shallow waters. The train service here is regular from Norwich on the rattling Bittern line via Cromer; it can get crowded.., particularly with heavy-suitcased pensioners.

 



 Back in 1980, Great Yarmouth promised fun for just 10 pence!  It's written all over my face.

 

 

 

 

Enjoy the Summer, Monty Trumpington.

 

 

PS: Sheringham has much better Fish & Chips than Aldebugh!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Woolpit: Of Wolves, Green Children & Green Men.

Woolpit, Suffolk or Wolfpit (Ulfcytel)

 

 

The small rural bus journeyed me across central Suffolk, inducing travel-sickness as it veered the bends of the country roads and its villages.  I had come to see the architecturally celebrated church of St Marys, Woolpit.  The village named not after the riches of the mediaeval wool-country but earlier, from the Anglo-Saxon Wolf-pits. Immediately from exiting the bus, we are within the charm of the triangular villlage green; itself a survival of the Saxons - used for penning-in the livestock.., from the wolves and such like.  The village has all the right components: Post-office selling faded/aged postcards and itself carrying an advertising hoarding from the early 20th century 'Telegrams sent from here!'.  There is also the village pub: http://www.woolpitswan.co.uk/homepage.htm, an unpretentious bake-house, a lovely cafe (that kindly warmed my wendling self with a generous cafetiere for one), above the aforementioned cafe - the village museum; set within a listed timbered building and open for a few token hours a week.  Immediately within the village green triangle, is the Church of St Mary.

 

St Marys, Woolpit.  The south porch (15th c), like a stone reliquery.

 

As we approach the church, we see the astonishing porch for which Woolpit (along with its fine double-hammerbeam roof) is reknown.  I stand and marvel for almost ten minutes; I am being watched by a couple tending a grave.  I always appear suspicious and almost convince myself I am here to 'rob the silver & remove the roof lead'.  Its okay though, I remove my camera from the satchel and this veils the threat I must hold to the grave-tenders.  Inside the porch door, a lierne roof vault; 'rare in East Anglia' (Jenkins 2000) and, above that a first-storied room that likely held parish records or venued meetings.  The small ancient door steps down into the South aisle.

 

The double hammerbeam roof & English Gothic Nave of St Marys, Woolpit.

 



St Marys. Woolpit.  Green men disguised within the choirs poppy-headed finnials.

 

St Marys, Woolpit. Another Green man.

 

St Marys, Woolpit. Artifact of a Wode-man.

 

I discover (as the above photographs illustrate) Green men, disguised within the foliate of the bench ends.  Also, near the Chancel a carved Wode-man of the forest.  All intriguing, given that Woolpit is associated with the tale of 'the green children'.  The story hails from the reign of King Stephen (1135 - 1154) and tells us that a young boy & girl were found by the Wolf-pits, they were green-skinned, dressed in strange clothes & spoke a foreign tongue. The boy was to die, yet the girl was to live, lose her green appearance and marry; going on to live in Kings Lynn.  The tale reeks heavily of the aural-folk tales of Anglo-Saxons & the Vikings.  It also has parables to Gawain & the Green Knight, Robin Hood & the Babes in the Wood.

 

St Marys, Woolpit.  Chancel screen. An original rood beam exits above.

 

St Marys, Woolpit. Screen paint detail.  The colours of the middle-ages mingles with Victorian.

 

St Marys, Woolpit. The pews are near all 1400s, all with animal/bestiary carvings.

 

 

I sit and absorb the building; the rain pattering away outside.  I read the church guide and go in search of the buildings treasures.  The only disapointment here is the window glass. The Ailses are narrow which Betjeman ( 1958) deem were for processional use only.  I eventually take my leave, ducking out of the short aged door.  I examine the porch interior in more detail.  It really is akin to a stone reliquery, like an exterior chantry.  The lierne vault is littered with animal faces. As I exit, two gentlemen & a lady approach; themselves armed with a county church arcitecture guide.  "Look, somebody else doing what we do Robin!"; proclaims the outwardly more eccentric of the men.., the lady appeared more 'taken out on a rainy-day trip', and less enthusiastic.  They talk briefly of all the locked churches they have encountered. I bid them good-day and, make way to the village.

 

 

St Marys, Woolpit. The South Porch.

 

St Marys, Woolpit. Clerestory flush-work & the poorer North side construction; the North side of English Parish Church buildings often suffer so, much like the poor - also traditionally buried in the dismal North aspect of graveyards.

 

Woolpit, Suffolk.

 

I find the Bake-house and take the last two homemade cheese-scones & a ginger-cake, wrapped in paper - stuff them into my canvas satchel & then off into the warm of the tea-room below the museum (the orange timbered building).  I am served hot coffee and a baked potato before heading back to the post office for the village-shuttle bus service, back to Bury St Edmunds.  I plan to return on a warmer day than this and explore the Spring/Lady Well.

 

 

Woolpit, Suffolk.

 

Woolpit is found on Ordnance Survey, Explorer series sheet 211: Grid Reference: TL973624.

The well can be found: http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=8322

 

 



 



 

The Gentlemen Travellers V: Wychwood & Charlbury (Oxon).

 

 

 

 

Prelude: Friday night is most certainly drinking night in Oxford.

So I dashed from work, competing with the four pm Friday school traffic and later I am delivered by a rather odourous bus into Stourbridge. Within an another hour I am standing on a near empty platform at Leamington Spa Railway Station, awaiting the train to dear Oxford. It has been a swelter of a day and I am encouraging the welcome breeze down my linen shirt in attempt to dry the the man-boob sweat patches; I am seemingly lactating.  You see, I am off to meet the gentlemen for a planned (walk & Ales) merriment through Charlbury & the ancient Wychwood Forest.  First we have drinking to do and as per usual I have arranged to meet at our regular 'The Eagle & Child'.  I arrive early and stand outside the pub on St Giles when I notice an old bar-fly friend of yore "Neil", I squealed.., "it's been at least two years!". Neil is on his way home from work, weighted shopping bags in hand. Before long Mr Leon G Thompson has arrived (fag held aloft) "Mwaah, alright bitches?".  Thompson & I cajole dear Neil into drinking with the 'just stay an hour, have a couple' gimmick; his shopping de-frosting before our eyes; he is due home whereby his partner awaits him, watching Dr Who on the telly.  Dr Dunn ambles down from his Summertown home and before long we were entrenched into holding court within the varying boozers: 'The Lamb & Flag, The Blenheim, The Bear, The Grapes and finally it is already last orders in the Castle Tavern.  It was here upon the basement pool table that Thompson poses as 'the death of Chatterton'; the pool room once being the venue of a failed gay sun bed initiative by the previous departing landlord.. Oxford just doesnt want for orange'd homossexuals.  The Dr & I take several bottles of plonk back to his rooms in Summertown, Thompson insisting on heading home; he could not face a full night of partial sleep so we agree to meet mid-day at Oxford Railway station. The Dr & I shlonk the plonk and critique the varying versions of Allegri Misierere & the Bach Cello suites.

 

 

Leon G Thompson sports a 1950s starched scarf. The Eagle & Child public house. Oxford.

 

 

 

To Charlbury... "shall we just stay in the pub?"

I wake the Dr with a cup of Earl-Grey. A bus into Oxford, bustling as ever and the sun gleaming off the ochre city stone. Leon is already at the station and we boarded the slow, heaving train northwards. We digress various hilarities of the previous night, before long we exit the train and amble into the village of Charlbury. We found the church (St Marys) whereby Dr Dunn executes his distaste of the last century renovations into their visitor book: see photograph below.  Not before too long we discover the comforts of the  Rose & Crown. http://www.roseandcrown.charlbury.com/. A large Red Setter dog lies sprawled, cooling itself on the tiled floor.  We do much the similar within a slightly rasied booth, spreading out the OS Map and deciding upon a route; savouring the White Horse ales 'Wayland Smithy' beer as we  glean upon it.  Outside the Bees hum on their landing approach of the Hollyhocks.  Inside the air hangs languid quiet with just a couple of the regulars sipping beer and reading the weekend newspapers with an occaisioned grunt.  We can barely be bothered to leave. "Just another? .., for the road?", "Alright, but no more than 5 pints, or we are wasting our time".

 

 

 

I admire the Corbels, Dr Dunn considers St Marys church as a "Hideous monstrosity": Charlbury.

 

 

Monty, beer-tanned & armed with the OS Land-ranger: The Rose & Crown, Charlbury.

 

 

Olympic flags Charlbury.

 

Eventually we haul ourselves reluctantly from the comforts of the pub and step out into the glare of the sunshine.  Within minutes we were out of the village and skirting the dry-stone walls, turning onto the approach for Cornbury Hall -  crossing over the trickling river Evenlode. As we rounded the baroque gates of the hall, we at once entering a (once formal) parkland; it is now left to flourish a little more natural than it was originally intended.  We grapple a route, wendling under dense tree canopies. Within a short time we are presented with a plateau of tiered pools, tempting Mr. L. G Thompson to take a dip!...

 

 

The Parkland of Cornbury Hall.

 

 

The succession of tiered pools bought about the beauty of the Damsel flies.

 

 

Only mad dogs and Englishmen... would head out into this early afternoon sun -  particuarly after a belly-full of beer!  Thompson decides (in the moment) that this is a suitable time & place to take a skinny dip; in a no trespassing gentrified estate. Egged-on by myself & the Dr before long he is teetering on the pool peripheries, gasping as his balls kiss the icy waters.  What we didnt know at the time was that, Thompson was ahead of a trend that followed in the spirit of writer & naturalist Roger Deakin, just a week later photographs were to hit the newspapers of herds of naked swimmers in the very same place: http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/naked-swimmers-at-cornbury-park-in-oxfordshire-1255840 (apologises for it being in the Daily Mirror).

 

Mr. L Thompson - before the icy waters kissed his balls.

 

Mr. L Thompson:  He is a tad shy regarding his naked shots however, he adds that at a price he can be emailed privately regarding these.

 

The Dr & I savour the sun whilst Thompson frolicked like a playful dog in the watery reeds.

 

Monty rips his arse rounding a barbed gate.

 

Get out of the water, take cover in the trees! 

Thompson hauls himself ashore, wearing only his training shoes & sagging boxers... drying like a dog in the sun.  We head down to the lower pools & after some time negiotiating a route over a fence, we enter into the cools of the Wychwood.  The name is more commonly known for the brewer, however the Wychwood was once an ancient forest for which formed part of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the Hwicce and subsequently, an ancient royal hunting forest into the mediaeval.  Today we are the Bretwalda's of the woods!!.., red-faced from those White Horse brewery Ales & yearning for more; beer-tanned we call it.

 

In the Wychwood.

 

In the Witch/Wych-wood. 

We traverse an hour or so through the woodland. Our OS Map illustrate 'Tumuli', Bronze-age round barrows.  Can we find them? Do we buggery! We do encounter a rather strange shrine.  A stick-pile adorned with Disney toys.  I feel its the site of something grisly and prefer to walk-on; the woodland has associations with ghosts & the paranormal, if this is your thing.  Eventually we come to a cross-roads.  A right-turn will take us a circular route back into Charlbury. We feel dehydrated and sunny-day dusty.  The pub is in order!  Back to the friendly landlord of the Rose & Crown where we stay until the last train back to Oxford.  As we depart Charlbury, the sun sets gloriously and the distant sound of a small village music festival drones away on the horizon.

 

Sun set at Charlbury, Oxon.

 

Thompson poses as Henry Wallis (1856): The Death of Chatterton.

 

 

The Gentlemen Travellers next take on: Tackley, Shipton on Cherwell, Hampton Gay & Kidlington - forthcoming. 



 

 

 

 



 



 







The Gentlemen Travellers IV: Dale's and Ale's.

Preliminaries:

On Monday the 2nd of April 2012, I go to meet Mr. Thompson & Dr. Dunn in Birmingham. We are accompanied by friends and, indulge somewhat in the splendid array of beer available in the Wellington pub (Bennetts Hill). Following merriment, an amusing train into Stourbridge, a late night dirty curry on the high street, we then venture back to my place for more lashings of cheap plonk and the gentlemens' need to play Elton John's 'Tiny Dancer' & Humperdinks 'Lesbian Seagull' ... on loop, via  you-tube. I remind the blighters that it is 03:00am and we have to be up in 3 hours; the Fox has kindly offered to drive us into Birmingham for our train to Derby. Some sleep occurred following snoring, Mr Thompson rolling his fags and the Dr trying to charge-up his own electronic (vapor) cigarette in my lap-top computer. I urge them to rise when 06:15 arrived. Thompson then pampers himself for an indefinate time with a girls bath scrunchy in the shower. Remarkably we are ready just as the Fox arrives. Back into the City through the Soho road then, the Fox deposits us near Snow Hill. We have time for breakfast though when Mr Thompson opens the door of a cafe within a mall, the stench of it's dirty carpet and grease makes him heave and he refuses to enter. We have to go to McDonalds where apparently the odour is more palatable.

Mr. Thompson in a Birmingham Mc Donalds with my (short-lived) Blue Hurricane lamp.

Departure:

We board a train bound for Derby, the sun cracks through the clouds as we head through Tamworth and Burton on Trent. we alight at Derby station and following some phaffing of searching for a bus, decide a taxi-cab is the best means of getting to Ashbourne. The A52 flows and winds it's way, clouds threaten rain. Our taxi pulls-up into town. we have no time to visit St Oswald's church instead, head into a Waitrose supermarket for some supplies. The Dr's indecisivness hit's a crisis, he has no idea what he needs or want's. We depart the store and venture over to the market square whereby, Mr Thompson consumes a monster of a sandwich roll & a bucket of value coleslaw. We have the appearence of 'outsiders' with my Tweed and Mr Thompsons fey ladie's scarf/caramel ray-bans ensemble, we cause a minor sensation for the queue in the barbers.

Mr. Leon Thompson & the Dr - Ashbourne. April 2012.

 

Best foot forward:

We strive forth, North-west out of the town. The OS Sheet (119 Land-ranger) guides us up onto the Tissington Trail; a disused railway line. Once we have walked more than half a mile, the local dog-walkers have diminished and, we are enlightened by a cacophany of bird-song. Below on our right, a valley-floor with views over Kniveton and Carsington. Here, and here only the walking is flat. We exit the railway-track onto Spend Lane and walk up into the hamlet of Thorpe. It is along this road that we formally enter the Peak National Park. Rumour has it there is a Public House up ahead. And indeed there is yet, it seems further away than the promised 2 miles. The Dr & I find the welcoming embrace of http://www.dogandpartridge.co.uk/walkers.html. Mr Thompson is lagging behind, singing Gypsy laments along the lane. We throw-off the heavy rucksacks and settle to a couple of pints of 'best'. The pub has an eclectic collection of teapots circumnavitating shelving around the pub and, the chatter of a parrot interupts the landlady talking to us.

Monty Trumpington. Thorpe: Peak National Park.

In the cosy confines of the Dog & Partridge we examine the OS map plotting our route. We depart into rain-spittered skie's, negoitating our way into Thorpe and to the rear of the very-tired looking Thorpe Hotel. Immediately, we emerge onto dry-stoned walls and, the slopes approaching the crag of Thorpe Cloud.

Dr Dunn walks on ahead, the camera lens - rain splattered.

The descent into Dovedale.



Rounding Thorpe Cloud, the descent down Lin Dale towards the Dove.

Through Verdent Green:

With our descent down Lin Dale, we are enveloped by the verdant slopes of the National Trust claimed land. We come to realise soon that we have, indeed chosen the wrong side of what was a trickle of a stream. We took the quadmire route... no fear, we soon slither through with our incurred trenchfoot and we swill our boots in the river Dove when we reach the valley floor. Dovedale, although beautiful... it is where people come to pretend they like the outdooors. They bring their unruly children and allow their river-dampened dogs to shake their hairy carcasses at passers by. The pretentious depart the car-park armed with full walking-gear (including water resevoir back pack & Nordic walking poles) all to complete a full 1 mile circular before, buying an ice-cream & pissing-off back to Nottingham; anyhow, heres the link should you wish to joing the throngs: http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/dovedale/.

Monty & the Dr consult OS Sheet 119 Landranger series.

The calm of Ilam rock & Hall Dale.

We escape the Day-trippers:

The footpath through these Dales climbs and dips the cliff-face. Leon, the Dr and myself walk at our own paces. we notice a mile or two onwards that, there are only a few passing walkers now. An occasional dog flies past us. There is a serinity with the broad, shallow curing waters of the Dove. Ancient man has lived in the caves up above us millenias before; a precious reminder of our own futility within the big geological story. We pause to admire the spectacles of Pickering Tor and the Dove hole caves. As we head toward Mill Dale, the cliff faces part and, make way for a sheep-filled water-meadow, shafts of welcomed sunlight greet our entrance into the meadow. All seems well with the world as we say our 'hello's' to the Ewes.  Wonderment! A stone kiosk has an open hatch & warms our wearying souls with hot sausage rolls. We praise our achievement of the day; i.e. waking-up after a belly-full of beverages the night previous and... walking however... tiredness increasing and the daylight will diminish, we need to hurry and get to our camp at Hulme-End. We leave the mediaeval stone bridge of Milldale, now...

 

A row on the mountain-slopes:

According to the OS map and, the contours (the orange lines with numbers); which I will claim Mr. Thompson knew sod all about, we should have took a  curving lane to avoid the (un-used) path up a bloody mountain. "Oh no, this is the most direct route! insisted the city-dweller. "But look at it" I protested... "A Portly gentleman & a Diabetic should never attempt such things".  "Just try to make an effort" retorted Mr. Thompson who was carrying the weight equivalent of a clutch bag "You'll be proud of getting to the top".  Without a care in the world, Thompson ascended the slippery slopes of the unsuitably-named (Sunny Bank!) leaving the Diabetic Dr & I carrying all the tent/supplies.  What occurred next was a barrage of expletives as a saw the arse of Thompson at 90 degress above me diminishing and, my hands and feet slipping my ruck-sacked pudgy self mostly distally, towards the matchbox-sized Milldale below.  The Dr & I eventually made it over the hilt of 'Sunny Bank' seeing Thompson in the distance supping on a roll-up. "The selfish Bastard!" "You have no consideration for your friends!"; giving him a lecture on 'there is no 'I' in team - like we were in Antarctica. Oh well. We made-up and pretended that we liked each other again whilst, the Dr took a Mars Bar and checked on his blood-glucose level.

 

 



 

On the Valley floor, Hartington. Two (endless) Miles to Hulme-End.

 

Rural Sign-Posts Lie...

It is true. A cruel joke is played on the geomancer. Road mileage by foot is greater. The alleged two miles to Hulme-End from Alstonefield takes light years and, every turn of the road offers another false hope that our destination (The Manifold Inn & Campsite) is near. The sky had fallen dark, an almost snow-like heaviness held within the clouds. It wouldnt snow, here, in April would it? The clouds parted for an occaisioned sun-ray that lifted spirits with views over the valley to Hartington; we were to go and ring the bells here this very evening were it not for it being 'Holy week' and, the week silencing of church bells. Eventually, one final lenth of road promises the Manifold Inn within our desperate grasp and by magic, as we approach our friend Carol pulls alongside in her car - also armed with tent! Mr. Thompson, Carol & I hurry to pitch out the two tents as the last of daylight slips away; the Dr having buggered off to the pub. 

Alstonefield.

The never ending road to the Mannifold Inn.

We came on holiday, by mistake.

Carol and Monty engage in Fair-Isle knitware wars.

 

 

We came on this big adventure:

So we said to all who would listen beyond closing time at the Mannifold Inn. The pub occupants were all staying in B&B rooms at the rear of the pub. Bob & Margaret from Essex always came this way - same time/same place every year. The middle-aged bald guy with his new Thai bride were on their honeymoon. There we were, Maps on the table, playing back our dictaphone journey recordings, explaining how we were moving on next day to Longor, then Buxton... if only we knew how things would change so horrifically.

 

 

It wouldnt snow, surely?

We were the last to leave the pub, armed with a several bottles of average red wine. It felt immensely cold heading towards the tents. We lit the Hurricane lamp and toasted half spilt wine from our aluminium camping cups over to Carol (in her own tent).  Somehow we fell asleep, exhausted by the long day walking. A slight icy rain/sleet was in the air, and then...

 

The Mannifold Inn campsite.

 

 

Wheres Carol, is she alive?

Mr. Thompson squealed as he emerged for a piss and his morning roll-up fag "Carols not in here tent.., it is all open and filled with snow!"; like the wolves had took her.  We didnt know what to do next. "Wake the Dr up!".  Leon put carrier bags over his canvas training shoes and set about to slither on the snow slopes towards the pub; desperately trying to smoke his fag and stay vertical. "Carols in the pub, she is arranging for us to have breakfast with the residents"; much welcomed yet, eating humble pie to Bob & Margaret & the Thai bride.  The barmaid had indeed lit a big fire. The electric had gone-down with the snow blizzard. We were all seemingly trapped, prisoners to the snow in a rural pub. This was Agatha Christie territory; It was the Thai bride who dunnit mr.. wiv that there fire poker!  We pondered with the idea of staying-on, in one of the Mannifold Inns B&B rooms. We would never get out and onto a snow-free main A-Road. Carol insited. She had a holiday flight booked from Manchester airport early the next morning. The Staff at the pub kept saying "Dunt gew over t'moor whar-ever ya do!". We had to go over the moor, Carol needed to make her flight. We agreed, if we helped get her clear, off the rural roads and into the town of Leek - she could get back to Manchester and we, the train to the Midlands.

 

The Mannifold Inn, no electricity. Breakfast all cooked on the gas.

 

 

Our Near-death experience made 'The Daily Mail' newspaper.

 

Carols wheels slipped, the car span. We all got out and cleared the path ahead.  Nerves were frayed and visability was zero. The friendly light of a police car emerged, yet he insisted we turned around and head straight back to the Mannifold Inn. Cars lay at angles within ditches, the gradient of the hill up to the moor increased, wheels still slipping, gears crunching and Carol " Ya just dont get it Andy... I must make this flight". Now, Mr. Thompson insists that he saved all our lives, I recall that we were all out of the car in a bloody blizzard, clearing a path for the car, whilst he mostly walked ahead  saying "This way, drive forward". Anyhow. We shouldnt have made it up & over the moor, but we did. Bob & Margaret pass us just short of Leek; they had escaped too and with a wind-down window said "Were off home to Clacton - may see you next year"; not fucking likely.  The Blizzard was a proper winter snow blizzard. It made the news - what follows is the best film evidence of the full horror: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0a8uP4tmWkk

 

We made it back to Wolverhampton, where we restored to Beer and the welcome of the Wellington (Birmingham) before a last train back to Oxford. Carol text the next day to say she was sun-bathing in spain.

 

The gentlemen Travellers thank the staff of the Manifold Inn (Hulme End) immensely for their hospitality: http://www.themanifoldinn.co.uk/

 

Our next foray into the wilds is, Charlbury & the Wychwood forest (in Summer).