High lanes and deep dales, anticipating the Dark Peak

There is a song that I should have sung at the 500 mile point, but I have been less concerned about looking at my itinerary this time. I think this might be because the mileage at the beginning wasn't completely accurate. Well, I reached 500 miles somewhere between Elvaston and Whatstandwell, three days ago. It has been a reflective few days, navigation easy, with a lot of time to think. It feels at the moment like one day at a time, the end being almost unimaginable. This is not necessarily a negative thing - just, I think, part of the process of walking a very long way. 

One of the consequences of having reached the hills of Derbyshire is that there are a lot of people dressed like me. This is now the place and the time where everybody is out to walk. And it's sort of normal. 

I left Whitstandwell on Sunday morning rejoining the Cromford canal, the water still and the bluebells perfectly reflected, framed by gnarled trees and tangles of undergrowth. People were out and about, taking advantage of the beauty of their local area, walking dogs and children, cycling, running, and all felt alive. At the other end of a tunnel a couple waited for me to come through and then apprehended me, asking questions with great interest. Roy and Barbara were great walkers, having in their time bagged Munros and Corbetts, and they took my blog address and genuinely wished me well. After emerging out of the pretty mill town of Cromford, I took the very Italian sounding Via Gellia, and ascended steeply up the long hillside village of Bonsall, onto open hill. I bid farewell to the Derwent valley and took paths through green green fields divided by dry stone walls, a vast view ahead of distant moors, and all felt different. The anticipation of gaining latitude was palpable. 

Before descending to my destination for the day I rested between two strange rocky outcrops, Robin Hood's Stride, which was a little like a walking Clapham Junction. A couple were out looking for a cave, and a walking companion who had wandered off. They too asked me where I was going and took my blog address with great interest. Two in one day! I was also moving into DofE group territory, long trails of heavily laden teenagers, rucksacks wonky, always a depressed looking one at the back. 

Youlgreave (or Youlgrave) was my destination for the day. Lovely Youlgreave. A place of sanctuary, small, ancient, friendly, safe. This is where I crossed my Lands End to John O'Groats route of four years ago. When I passed through then I was heading in a north easterly direction. This time I was going in a north westerly direction. I went into the church and played the old piano, looked at the Burne Jones window (he was in Somerset too) and had a pint at the George. And then I knocked on the door of Church Farm, in the middle of the village, where I camped last time. There is no sign. It's a place you find if you know. The lady said she remembered me - I'm not sure if she was just being nice! It's a field of long grass with an old metal trailer in the corner with a loo and a tiny sink with a cold water tap. I looked at the sink and wondered what possessed me last time I was there to wash my hair. I managed it but I have no idea how. It was Trinity Sunday then, and I went to church and joined the tiny congregation valiantly singing big Trinitarian hymns. This time the church was in darkness so I went to the other pub, the Bulls Head, at the other end of the street. It was a very cold night so I spent as long as I could there, writing, and chatting with the very friendly barman, and a local couple. A couple from Leicester - Eyres Monsell - then came in and bought me another drink, and donated to my fundraising. A couple of elderly gentlemen then came in, in peaked caps, checked shirts and woollen ties, and listening to them chat was like being in an episode of Last of the Summer Wine. The moon was full and the night crisp and clear and cold.

The following morning I was glad of a steep climb out of the village just to warm up. It didn't last. The north wind blew all day, but thankfully I was too far north for the predicted torrential rain. I kept on the Limestone Way which took me above Lathkill Dale. It's a strange landscape from above - high smooth green, with sudden deep crevasses where the high sided dales wind through, another world hidden below the Limestone. I decided to leave the Limestone Way for a bit and descended into the Dale, into a silent prehistoric world, bound by narrow rock, with ancient wound trees, and moss clothed boulders, the only sound being birdsong, bouncing off the sides of the valley. Crows nested in small caves above me. I met a man and we had an almost whispered conversation, the second person on the walk who had really asked me why. 

After high lanes out of Monyash I descended into Miller's Dale feeling tired. A huge viaduct, tall and ornate, suddenly appeared out of the tree cover. I could do nothing about the fading enthusiasm so thought of the ingenuity and determination that built the structure above me. It was still very cold so I had to keep going to stay warm. A long ascent eventually took me to Cop Farm where hundreds of tiny lambs were doing their best to be heard for miles around and succeeding. It was downhill all the way to Castleton, hidden behind the deep crevasse of Cave Dale, the ruined cube of Peveril Castle teetering on the edge of the rocky valley side. 

And so, today I only walked a half day, over the Mam Tor ridge into Edale. The sun shone sporadically, and more DofE teenagers than I could count were being marched up and down, teachers cracking the whip and carrying disproportionately tiny rucksacks in comparison to the huge bags the kids were carrying. 

I'm writing this in the Old Nag's Head, at the start of the Pennine Way. The Dark Peak rises ominously above and it is due to rain tonight. I haven't brought my waterproof, but my tent is only a two minute walk from the pub door. In the Dark Peak there is miles of bog, and fog. I have had time today to contemplate the next stage - solely on the Pennine Way, 268 miles, to cross the border into Scotland. I have played 'spot the Pennine Way walker'. They have a look of slight anxiety, and clean boots, constantly looking towards the direction of their route tomorrow. I think I've spotted five. This also means that life may not be so lonely for a while.