My walking companion and I had spent the previous night at Greg’s Hut. I’ve never been one to rush walks, so when we were late in setting out on our planned 19-mile tramp across the highest of the Pennines, I thought I’d use the delay to our advantage and split the excursion in two.
The geographical centre of England is a mere few miles away. Hurst Green at the start of the walk is a lively village with a handful of pubs and stone cottages. Life and tourism around the village revolves around Stonyhurst.
A heavy shower had just passed through as I arrived at Ilam Hall. Bucolic lawns and well-manicured shrub beds were now shining in the damp sunshine, but I was soon heading through the parkland and over a footbridge that led to open country.
It’s often said that the Peak District, after Mount Fuji, is the second most popular national park in the world, attracting (or maybe just putting up with) more than 20 million visitors each year.
Win Hill may not be the highest hill in the world, clocking in at a diminutive 462m/1500ft. But it is a true peak, easily picked out from surrounding fells, and the views from the summit are wide-ranging and breathtaking.
For six glorious years I lived just 20 minutes away from the Roaches, where a distinctive gritstone crest boldly marks the south-western edge of the Peak District.
Soaring temperatures meant an early start, greeted by fine drizzle and extremely humid conditions. But I stuffed my Páramo into my pack and resolved not to allow the changeable conditions to get the better of me.
The traffic news came on the radio and I felt quite smug as it described the tailbacks building up around Birmingham at the start of another working week.
The narrow waist of the southern Pennines between Yorkshire and Manchester can hardly be called beautiful, yet the stark moorland hills, crumbling edges and deep cloughs provide an impressive and challenging first stage to the Pennine Way.
With names like Old Woman, James’s Thorn and Devil’s Dyke, Bleaklow seems a foreboding place, and strange tales of magic and evil superstition conferred on the moor haven’t helped. But you don’t have to look too far to find poetry in the peat that makes up most of the mountain.
Standedge, pronounced round here as ‘Stannige’, lies on the Pennine watershed. Offering one of the shortest routes across the top, it was an obvious choice for road, canal and railway engineers.
The first time I hiked over the Stiperstones I got completely soaked and ended up sheltering for half the afternoon in a dense dark conifer plantation. The landscape has been changing since then, and those trees have recently disappeared as part of a major plan to return the southern section of the ridge back to open windswept moorland.
It’s the second highest peak in the Peak District, and on the doorstep of several million people who help make the national park the most visited in Britain.
Winter had arrived with a vengeance, bringing icy cold mornings, a covering of snow on the higher ground, and frost turning the whole of the Peak into a carpet of white. Mist could be seen covering the valley floor, while the motionless waters of Ladybower Reservoir reflected the early morning skies.
In autumn Padley Gorge is an absolute joy. The paths are covered in a wealth of vibrant colour as trees shed their cover – gleaming in the low bright sunshine; crunching underfoot. With Burbage Brook tumbling and falling through the narrow confines of the valley floor, the ascent to Lawrence Field was delightful.
A typical early winter’s day, cold and damp, just what you want for a foray onto Bleaklow. Crossing the Snake Road we headed into the confines of the forested Lady Clough, picking up a delightful path covered with pine needles and burnished fallen leaves.
350 million years ago a tropical sea by the equator gave life to generations of marine creatures, whose discarded shells were laid down in an ever thickening deposit, compressing itself into rock. The plate moved north, closer to immense river deltas that drained a colossal range of mountains.
To the south-west of Kinder Scout lies Chinley, with its good rail links to Manchester and Sheffield and, for walkers especially, between Chinley and Edale. This link means you can enjoy a linear walk taking in the tilted escarpment of Cracken Edge, Brown Knoll and Kinder Scout before a short train journey back to the starting point.
I could see that the sun had broken the horizon even from within the shadowy depths of the Derwent Valley. It painted nearby hilltops with its warming glow. Luckily Crook Hill is not so large, and I’d soon be enjoying the display. The valley was echoing with the honk of geese, when I came face to face with one of the highlights of the trip.
Three reservoirs lie beneath the brooding edges of the upper Derwent Valley in the Dark Peak. Much of the area is owned by the National Trust, which has overseen sympathetic management of the area, resulting in an alluring vale, enjoyed by the people and wildlife alike.
What more could you ask for? A classic ridge, moorland bog crossing, fantastic views and a rough boulder ravine to finish. Leaving Edale in the opposite direction to most, I headed for the Great Ridge, gained via the path leading to Hollins Cross, which is marked with a memorial topograph.
Early spring and a mixed bag weather-wise. You expect variation in these parts, especially at this time of year – sunshine can be followed by a howling blizzard appearing from nowhere. But today’s prediction was for excellent visibility with the occasional shower.
I had longed to be out in the hills all week, dreaming of clear blue skies and wild moors. So, with a forecast promising brightness from late morning onwards, it was with optimism that we left our start point, walking through a heavily wooded plantation.
Visibility was bad and the ground soaked through. A typical late autumn British day. The intention had been to head for the depths of the Derwent fells, but not with the weather as it was. A change of plan took me to the line of Edges that would offer little navigational trouble and hopefully drier feet.
