Of the myriad devices tested on the public to dispense toilet tissue, my all-time favourite has to be the apparatus requiring users to extract single sheets through a small rubber-grommetted hole, producing short stumps of twisted paper rope. What were the design criteria for this tool of misery and despair? Clearly, they had nothing to do with human anatomy or even pragmatism. It takes about seventeen of those threads, plaited together, to create anything remotely safe for ablutions.
Why the preponderance? Travel necessarily acquaints one with the finer rooms of various establishments, and the ever-changing diet can often lead to heightened regularity (who travels with extra Metamucil?), exacerbating the focus on such necessities. Or at least, it certainly does with me; Di seems to get off OK. It could also be last night’s cheese cauliflower, fries with parmesan and truffle oil, breakfast yoghurt, milk coffee, and the occasional creme brulee. Anyway, I need to detox for a while.
I headed off today cross-country, leaving Di at the Vicerage to wash my underpants. Whilst there’s more to it than that, it’s not untrue and will certainly make for interesting conversation tomorrow. I planned to walk the “Roaches” and “Luds church”. In the East of the park, they have edges, in the West, roaches; there must be some kind of naming convention feud going on. Edges, roaches, they’re all carboniferous gritstone (specifically Millstone Grit), sedimentary rock layers created by ancient river deltas, during the Carboniferous period, about 300 million years ago. Clearly, I downloaded that from Google, but hopefully this inoculates me from hearing the geology of my own holiday from at least two well-meaning family members later on. Too much? Live dangerously.
From East to West takes a full 40 minutes, green-hill undulating through a veritable delight of stone cottage hamlets, each with their Royal Oak, Bulls Head or Pack Horse Inn pubs enticing defenceless drivers in for a pint, a loaf, cornbeef, pickles and cheese with their damn crackling fireplaces, weathered timbered beams and stone – Lord save me.
He does, and I finally wind up through the narrow street of Upper Hulme, an old water wheel-powered mill town, to the foot of Hen Cloud, a solitary standing outcrop demarking the start of “The Roaches”. Hen cloud is 400m above sea level, and the Roaches about 500m. Apart from an initial rock scramble, it’s a pleasant walk with views out over Tittesworth Reservoir. At one stage, alone in the rocks, I felt I could have been a lone explorer, testing my mettle against the elements, one slip the difference between life or death, until an old bloke with a dog rounded the corner, “hi – yah! Nice day”. The subsequent coke cans, solidly filled dog turd bags and general human detritus also clearly, if shockingly, inform one that ‘civilisation’ is never far away. Not far enough, it sometimes feels.
The old bloke informs me that what I’d just seen is a Peregrine Falcon. Whilst I’d love to believe him, I’m sure it was a crow, but I did see a red grouse, which was pretty cool (photo evidence provided).
Foolishly, I thought Luds’ church was, well, a church. It’s actually a small (100m long by 14m deep) canyon caused by a land slip donkeys years ago. Descent into the ‘churches’ microcosm of ferns, moss and lichens is otherworldly against the surface rocky outcrops and tundra (actually, there’s a bit of forest around Lud’s church, but I was going for effect). All in all a lovely little walk (12km or so) with a bonus Shetland cow at the end.
Zero traffic driving home, and the powerful Skoda four cylinder punched down the peaks district stonewalled back roads at an astonishing pace. My thoughts, of course, were on the underpants and their readiness for tomorrow’s adventures (with 3/4 dairy diet and rope for TP, you know I’m going to need them).
We head to the Bridge Inn for dinner and don’t discuss my underpants. It turns out there are developments in Iran at least as important, and we discuss those as well as Di’s tour route for tomorrow and of course the dinner menu; bangers and mash and fish of the day, sea bass. The last thirteen pubs have all had Sea Bass as the “fish of the day”. Seems unlikely. Birdseye fish of the day?
Tomorrow, Bakewell, Buxton and clean underwear!