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).
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