We’ve had two of the most gorgeous, still, blue sky, winter-warm days…ever! Some responses from locals; “It’s the gap between the rain”, “Finally, after 40 days straight of rain!” (followed by an Uncle Vanya-esque reflection on said 40 days). Poms.
On the road yesterday we headed to Bakewell. Takeaway coffees (hot chocolate for Di) from a smiley, relaxed-talking local coffee shop owner who, perhaps with a twinkle in his eye, gave us the low down, or as it turned out, the stitch up, “…don’t do it that way though, go Ashford in the Water, Eyam then Buxton otherwise you’ll be zig-zagging.” We certainly zig-zagged and should have kept to Di’s original plan. We did see some nice country though – which was perhaps his intent. We’ll never know – but the coffee was good.
Pretty little town with lots of pubs, eateries and tourist shops. The All Saints church is quite remarkable with stone crosses dating to the 9th century, melding Celtic, Christian, and pagan markings.
Paid for parking, doffed our coats and hats, punched in the next destination (Ashford in the Water) and settled ourselves in for the next leg of the journey. And arrived at our destination four minutes later.
Weary from our journey, we thought it necessary to revittal at the Ashford Arms…by the fire…with a beer. Very nice. At this point, we should have gone straight to Buxton and taken in Eyam on the return journey but, trusting in our friend’s local knowledge, we headed North, almost back home, to Eyam. Live and Learn. Eyam is the “Plague” town where locals decided to go into voluntary lockdown when a local tailor received some flea-infected cloth in the summer of 1665. Plaques around town suggest 230 died, leaving only 80 survivors, but more recent studies suggest the local population was likely 800, half surviving. One lady lost her husband and six children in eight days. Actually, we may have underdone Eyam. What we saw was lovely, however after walking to where the ‘dot’ said “Eyam”, we found, whilst driving out, that most of Eyam, and probably the good bits, were actually in the other direction.
Zagging back to Buxton took us much further West (about 30 minutes) through rolling hills and valleys, along the River Wye, snaking back and forth under tall stone arched railway bridges, before arriving in the golden hour at Buxton railway station car park. The railway info map indicated the “slopes” and the Buxton Crescent only yards away – so we hightailed it. The slopes, carpeted with purple, white and lilac crocuses, were glowing in the fading afternoon sun, and we tripped over each other to get the best photo. As usual, Di won.
Just as the last beams of light lit upon the crocuses and tucked them in for the night, the warm lamp glow of “Lubens” at the top of the slope beckoned us in, and we enjoyed a delightfully fresh and chunky terrine …by the fire…with a wine.
Walking back to the car we checked out the “Living Water” spring where Marie Queen of Scots came to ‘take waters’ for many years, apparently, thence on to the opera house and back to our jalopy. It’s hard driving at night here. Anything but the main roads are very narrow, which is scary enough during the day, but at night, there’re no reflectors at all, nought, nothing, it’s pitch black. Not a major drama – just makes the driving more tiring. Dinner at the Bridge Inn where our friendly barmaid regaled us with her tales of travel, considerately including her lived experience of Australians being chauvinist racists. The food was good (bangers and mash, garlic chicken).
Actually, I’ve heard that a bit from the English, not just ladies, either. Not that Australians can’t be obnoxious prats, but I wonder whether some of it’s not cultural. What we assume to be taking the piss, they see as chauvinistic – not sure? We certainly mused later at the irony of those views, espoused while living in an essentially white village in a region prolific with mostly white monied gentry, working in a pub, filled mostly with blokes. Everything’s relative, I suppose.
Today we drove out (way, way north – about 25min) to Castleton at the foot of Mam Tor, a spectacular ‘edge’ with 4000 years of landslides (still continuing) creating a distinctive cliff face and lower ‘daughter’ hills on the village side. It’s the premier peak of the park with 360 degree views (we’ll digi-delete out the cement works later) and 1200BC history (bronze age fort ramparts and two burial barrows). Actually, they’ve found Neolithic polished axe heads as well. On a clear day like today, you could easily make out hikers walking up the ridge from the town and standing atop the Tor from the village below.
The town sports a 1080’s castle too, built by William Peveril shortly after the battle of Hastings to control local silver and lead mines. There are many lead mine ‘caverns’ about, however, the gaping cavern creating a spectacular and impenetrable approach to the western side of the castle is in fact a limestone cave. The castle was ‘closed’, but you could get close to it from a path ‘around the back’. We wandered the narrow streets along the sun sparkling, duck waddling brook, betwixt stone cottages and shops, eventually, and inevitably, arriving at the bulls head for a beer. Here we soaked up the sun for a while before driving up the pass and ‘ascending’ Mam’s Tor from the west (about a 500m walk).
A delightful golden afternoon drive back through the hamlet of Edale, and we were done.
