those familiar with the country find these not unpicturesque. The
masonry still retains its startling whiteness, and neither fern nor
moss grows in the interstices. From the distance they resemble castle
ruins, and, where the machinery and rotting beams remain, recall to
mind Browning’s poem of “Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came”. Young
folk are fascinated by the precincts of these mines--there are dwarf
plantations, deep holes full of discoloured water, and mounds of yellow
and white debris, on which bloom in summer wild pansies, golden, pale
blue, and richest purple.
Centuries ago this district was the haunt of wolves. Camden writes
that in his time “there is no danger of them in these places, though
formerly infested by them, for the taking of which some persons held
lands here at Wormhill, from whence the persons were called Wolve-hunt,
as is manifest from the Records of the Tower”. It is easy enough to
picture the red deer being pursued across the waste, and climbing for
safety to the rocks that overhang the swiftly flowing Wye.
Despite its railway, Monsal Dale is the Arcady of Peakland, a happy
restful place where one never wearies of looking upon the tender green
meadows and the clear, winding stream. The cottages seem as though
they must be inhabited by a people apart who have little in common
with to-day. It is a fitting background for pastorals, dainty and
mirth-provoking as Gay’s _Shepherd’s Week_. When evening falls, the
valley takes on an aspect of some grandeur; the hills grow steeper, the
trees become stouter of bole and denser of foliage; there is no sound
save the comfortable lapping of the stream. At times a hollow rumble
sounds in the far distance, increases and increases, and the lighted
train flies across the viaduct, and, passing the little station,
disappears in the farther tunnel. But for this connection with modern
life Monsal Dale would belong altogether to the distant past.
Beyond the Ashford road stretches a weird little ravine known as
Demon’s Dale; a dark and narrow place where one would scarce care to
go o’ nights. It has a fantastically unreal appearance; it might be a
robber’s haunt in some oldfashioned melodrama.
Cressbrook Dale opens to the right, near a cotton mill which is less
unpicturesque than most of its kind. This valley is scarce known to
the ordinary tourist, and yet there is no denying its peculiar beauty.
Not far from the mill stand some melancholy cottages which a shrewd
local wit christened “Bury-me-wick”. At the farther end, near Wardlow
Mires, where was the last instance of gibbeting in England, rises a
curious rock, in shape not unlike a cottage loaf, which bears the name
of “Peter’s Stone”, probably given in the days when the High Peak was a
Catholic country.
The trees of Cressbrook Dale are notably fine, and in autumn offer
a grand blaze of colour. Old-time writers described the place as a
“Dovedale in miniature”, but much allowance must be made for the
imagination of those who loved to squander epithets. Cressbrook has
in truth no resemblance to Dovedale, and, comparison being out of
the question, one may agree it is as well deserving of a pilgrimage.
There are some fine crags, a waterfall, and pools bright with cresses;
the hartstongue may still be found in the less-accessible nooks, and
botanists delight in its rare flora. Cressbrook is always beautiful,
but most wonderful at sunset in winter, when the frozen valley is
filled with crimson haze.
Nearer Buxton the Wye glides through Miller’s Dale, which of itself is
somewhat uninteresting, although where the banks draw together and the
stream becomes a rapid there are some exquisite glimpses of miniature
cañons. A road climbs steeply up to Tideswell, where stands the
handsomest of Peakland churches, or to Litton, where, centuries ago,
dwelt the ancestors of the famous author of _The Caxtons_.
Still higher up the river is the horseshoe-shaped Chee Dale, which is
classed amongst our finest instances of limestone scenery. The river
and path there are confined between rocky, well-wooded banks. Chee Tor,
the great overhanging cliff, is about three hundred feet in height.
The beauty of this valley varies greatly according to the season, but
throughout the year is seen to perfection on the nights when the moon
is at the full.
[Illustration: LATHKIL DALE]
The Derwent valley is perhaps the most interesting, since it has
so many fine traditions of the ancient Peakland families. There
are several halls of considerable dignity, mostly in very secluded
situations, and nowadays used as farmhouses. North Lees, near
Hathersage, which bears a striking likeness to an ecclesiastical
edifice, is well worth a visit to see the remains of pargeting and
the corkscrew staircase. Highlow, too, built by the same family and
about the same period, still preserves much of its old state--the
staircase is singularly handsome, and one of the ceilings is coved
with massive timbers. At Nether Padley, two miles away, may be seen a
chapel, which is used nowadays as a barn, and also other slight remains
of the ancient home of the Fitzherberts. A yearly pilgrimage is made
to this place in memory of two seminary priests, by name Garlick and
Ludlam, who in Elizabeth’s days were secreted here, discovered,
taken to Derby, and, with another, Richard Sympson, hanged, drawn, and
quartered. A contemporary ballad describes the last scene.
“When Garlick did the ladder kiss
And Sympson after hie,
Methought that then St. Andrew was
Desirous for to die.
* * * * *
“When Ludlam looked smilingly,
And joyful did remain,
It seemed St. Steven was standing by
For to be stoned again.”
There is a tradition that these unfortunate men were secreted at Padley
in the chimneys of the old chapel; but such as see the place will agree
with Doctor Cox that it is more probable that their hiding place was in
the hall itself.
Hathersage’s best claim to fame lies in the fact that Robin Hood’s
best henchman, Little John, lies in the churchyard. Moorseats Hall,
a hillside grange scarcely visible from the valley roads, was used
by Charlotte Brontë as the background of the least-interesting part
of _Jane Eyre_. It was there that Jane’s cousins, the Rivers family,
dwelt, and the impossible but none the less admirably imagined St. John
was presumably vicar of that graceful church. Hathersage is rapidly
losing its old charm; rows of genteel “villa residences” are being
built, and the place is becoming nothing more than a suburb of the
great manufacturing town beyond the hill.
Farther down the valley a strange eighteenth-century house stands on a
thickly wooded bank of the river. This is Stoke Hall, once the Peakland
home of the Earls of Bradford. The neighbouring folk in former years
used to tell a weird story of a skull that haunted the upper story, and
one may be sure that they feared to pass alone after “edge o’ dark”.
Although Stoke has no pretensions to architectural beauty, its position
suggests romance and mystery. In the wood near by stands a renaissance
statue known as “Fair Flora”, a gift from the “long-armed” Duke of
Devonshire to a member of the Bridgman family, but by popular belief
a monument raised to the memory of a young lady who was murdered by a
jealous lover.
The Arkwrights once occupied Stoke, and as a child I remember
hearing, from an old gaffer, stories of Stephen Kemble--Mrs. Robert
Arkwright’s father--who was so corpulent that his calves slipped over
his shoe-tops! Perhaps it was at Stoke that the lady set to music
Campbell’s song of the brave Roland who expired at Ronceval, a romance
beloved by the contraltos of our grandsires’ days.
After Stoke, the Derwent, crossing a great weir, runs over a stony bed
to Calver, then through green meadows to Baslow, from whose steep
bridge there is a view almost as beautiful as that at Bakewell. Close
by stands the little church, disfigured with a grotesque “Jubilee”
clock dial. In the vestry may be seen a dog-whip, with which in less
civilized times the verger drove out the offending animals. The Derwent
has no gorges like the Wye and the Dove. It suggests a comfortable
placidity, whilst the others seem young, more vivacious, and reckless.
Dovedale is generally regarded as the most picturesque of the Peakland
valleys, and indeed I know no lovelier stretch in spring and in autumn
than the two miles between the conical hill of Thorp Cloud and the
Dove Holes caverns. It is impossible to travel either in vehicle or
on horseback--to see Dovedale one must make use of “Shanks’s Mare”.
Sometimes the path runs along the very margin of the stream, sometimes
it climbs toy bluffs, whence one may look down mimic precipices. Each
salient feature is named--there are to be found on the Staffordshire
bank limestone crags known as the “Twelve Apostles”, and on the
Derbyshire bank pinnacles which bear the name of “Tissington Spires”.
There is also a recess called “Dovedale Church”, and a great cave
dedicated to Reynard the Fox. The “Straits” must be passed--sometimes
after heavy rain the path is flooded; then one sees the “Lion’s Head”
and the “Watch Box”, after which all is green and grey monotony.
Ashbourne is within easy walking distance. In one of the principal
streets stands the “Green Man”, a fine old inn with a striking
signboard that overhangs the cartway. The eighteenth-century landlady
here was described by Boswell as a “mighty civil gentlewoman”. Samuel
Johnson often visited his friend Dr. Taylor at a house still existent.
A more important memory is that in the Marketplace the Young Pretender
was proclaimed as King of Great Britain.
The chief beauty of Ashbourne is the fine old church of St.
Oswald’s, with its well-preserved tombs of the Cokayne and Boothby
families--those of the former commencing in 1372. The pride of the
church is, however, the marble monument of little Penelope Boothby,
who died in 1791. The sculptor, Thomas Banks, achieved a masterpiece
of pathos in this simple figure of a tired child resting happily. The
English inscription--there are also inscriptions in French and Italian
and Latin--tells us that the parents, Sir Brooke and Dame Susanna,
“ventured their all on this frail bark, and the wreck was final”.
[Illustration: DOVEDALE]
Beresford Dale, a few miles from Dovedale, although only a quarter of a
mile in length, is almost equally beautiful, and, moreover, is famous
as having once been the property of Charles Cotton, Isaac Walton’s
bosom friend. In _The Compleat Angler_ one reads of the “Pike Pool”
with its upstanding limestone pillar which _Viator_ describes as
“the oddest sight I ever saw”. The little fishing house used by the
two happy men still stands beside the stream, but to-day one is not
permitted to examine closely this shrine of pleasant memories.
Beyond the dreary upland the Lathkil gathers itself together in
mysterious underground passages, and appears suddenly as a fair-sized
stream. It runs down a narrow, well-wooded dale to the pretty village
of Alport, mingles there with the Bradford, and enters the Wye near
Fillyford Bridge, within sight of Haddon Hall. Of all Peakland rivers
the Lathkil is the purest; its waters have the clearness and lustre of
rock crystal. A lordly pleasure for a lazy man is to rest beside the
pools and to watch the stealthy glidings of the great trout between the
waving weeds.
The streams from the limestone are invariably cold-looking. A sight of
the little brook that runs through Middleton Dale is vastly refreshing
on a hot summer’s day. The rocks here, castellated in outline, rise
to a considerable height, and in May the valley is scented with the
yellow gilliflowers that grow in every crevice. Something of the beauty
is disappearing; quarrymen have been at work for years, and at the
entrance to Eyam Dale the hillside is losing its rugged grandeur. There
is a “Lover’s Leap”, with a better-authenticated history than that in
the neighbourhood of Buxton, since it is well known that an amorous
maiden, many years ago, threw herself from the edge high above and, as
she wore a crinoline, reached the bottom without very serious hurt. A
small inn marks the site of her escapade. There is also a cave known
as Carl Wark, notorious in the district since the body of a murdered
pedlar was found there and only identified by his shoe buckles. At the
upper end of the dale, on the green platform near where the stream
rises from the earth, more often than not are to be seen the vans of
gipsies more or less unclean.
Stoney Middleton village is desolate but interesting. There is an
ancient mill dam of greenish water, and at one end an octagonal
toll house bestrides the entering stream. The village reminds one
of Devonshire, save that it is squalid and cold of hue. A quaint
middle-aged hall, the property of Lord Denman, rises beside the church,
and nearby is a bath, now but little frequented, the heat of whose
waters is two degrees higher than that of Matlock’s warmest springs.
This is supposed to have been constructed by the Romans; according to
old writers many of their coins have been found in the neighbourhood.
Until the nineteenth century the only road through the valley was a
pack-horse track--vehicles climbing the steep hill of Middleton Moor.
In 1664 the Sheriff of Derbyshire, who dwelt in this isolated place,
was asked by the judge why he kept no coach, and replied: “There was
no such thing as having a coach where he lived, for ye town stood on
one end!” The best impression of Stoney Middleton is gained from the
highway that runs from Grindleford to Eyam; thence one looks down upon
an irregular cluster of roofs, with a veil of light, drifting smoke.
The Delf, a pretty clough with many tall trees, opens at some little
distance from the quaint colour-washed inn, and climbs up to Eyam,
which, from its historical and literary associations, may be regarded
as Peakland’s most interesting village. There, from a gloomy ravine
called the “Salt Box”, a rillock creeps and soon loses itself in the
grass.
THE CASTLE AND THE CAVES
Sir Walter Scott never visited Peakland; therefore his descriptions
are devoid of topographical value. In the period which he has chosen
for his _Peveril of the Peak_ the chief families of the district had
degenerated into small squires who probably never stirred more than
twenty miles from home in their lives.
Castleton is oddly situated at the end of the Hope valley, where the
great hills seem to bar all farther progress. Of old the only way of
crossing these hills was by the “Winnats”, a romantic pass that starts
impressively but soon becomes dull and uninteresting. The “Winnats”
would be greatly improved by a brawling stream; as it is, the very
sight of the place in summer excites one’s thirst. Long ago a romantic
tragedy occurred here: two young eloping lovers were murdered by
ruffians who hid amongst the rocks. I remember as a child seeing the
blood-stained pillion from which they fell.
Peveril’s Castle surmounts a steep hill, which one climbs by a rough,
curving path. Nothing of much interest remains--there is a buttressed
keep and a broken wall--architecturally it is inferior to many a Border
peel; but its situation is amazingly well-chosen. On one side is the
precipice descending to the “Devil’s Cave”; on the other the deep and
narrow ravine of Cave Dale, a parched and solitary place not devoid of
a certain charm. Little is known of the castle’s history, and in all
likelihood it was from the first a stronghold of very minor importance.
[Illustration: PEAK CAVERN GORGE, CASTLETON]
But in bygone days the country, if tradition may be believed, was
once covered with forest so dense that a squirrel might travel twelve
miles without once descending to the ground. Now there are very few
trees, and none of any great size. The hamlet of Peak Forest itself is
exceedingly bleak and desolate--a small tract of woodland there gives a
faint impression of how the country appeared in long-past centuries.
Castleton is famous for a pageant which is performed every Royal Oak
Day. Then gaily-dressed children dance what survives of the morris,
and the village band plays its best; whilst King Charles and his lady
wife, acted by two Peaklanders of the sterner sex, ride in state
through the quaint streets. His Majesty, in cavalier costume, has the
upper part of his body covered with a gorgeous bouquet, in shape not
unlike a beehive, which, towards evening, is drawn up to the top of the
church tower, and left to wither upon a pinnacle. The play dates from
Restoration times, and on the twenty-ninth of May Castleton is seen at
its best.
On the way from the castle one may visit, after paying a penny, the
Russet Well, a spring of singularly clear water, whose surroundings
might easily be made more picturesque. This is reputed to produce
4000 gallons of water every minute, and never to vary in quantity.
Thence the path passes some ancient cottages, where may be purchased
postcards and souvenirs of blue-john or of spar, and one rises beside
the stream to the magnificent portal of the Devil’s Cave.
The first impression is one of curious weirdness, since for hundreds
of years the archway has been used as a ropewalk, and along one side
are mysterious drums, and poles that bear a mysterious resemblance
to gibbets. The light is pale and sad; one can scarce believe that
one is looking upon an English curiosity. There is a suggestion of
Salvator Rosa--in the design but not in the colour. The place might
be a brigand’s cave; one almost expects to hear the clamour of angry
voices. Through many generations the gipsies of England met here year
after year; in those times the cave must have had fitting inhabitants.
The name alone suggests fire and smoke. At the farther end a little
doorway admits to a narrow passage, and, provided with candle-ends,
visitors are conducted through several strangely named caverns.
Occasionally it is necessary to bend almost double, and thereby avoid
knocking against the low roof. At one time a boat was used to convey
tourists under the lowest arch, but nowadays a cutting has made the
journey less embarrassing. The guide--it cannot be denied that the
guides of Peakland are of a high order of intelligence--draws attention
to the divers peculiarities of the place, whilst firing, every other
minute, pieces of magnesium wire. The series of caverns is undeniably
fascinating; but there is a curious sense of depression, and it is
pleasant to see again the broad light of day.
An entirely different sensation is provided by the inspection of the
Speedwell Mine, whose entry is at the foot of the Winnats. There one
descends a long and rough staircase, and enters a heavy-looking boat
which, moved by the guide, who places his hand against the wall on
either side, glides smoothly for half a mile through an artificial
tunnel, at whose end lies the Grand Cavern. Stubs of lighted tallow
candle are stuck here and there--looking back one sees a strange vista
of smooth black water reflecting yellow flames. Travelled folk are
reminded of a canal in Venice. The voice echoes as in the crypt of some
cathedral. The Grand Cavern is not a little impressive, and when the
trap is raised, and the water leaps down into the Bottomless Pit, one
is pleasantly stirred by comfortable terror.
To reach the Blue John Mine one may ascend the Winnats, then turn
to the left across some barren fields. This is equal in interest
to the others, and moreover is still being worked for the sake of
its famous amethystine spar, which, since it is growing exceedingly
scarce, increases in value year by year. Stalactites and fossils are
to be found there, and there is one cavern--known as the “Variegated
Cavern”--which might well be the home of gnomes.
Near by is Mam Tor, or the “Shivering Mountain”, so called because the
scaly side is always crumbling in winter. In one of the old Annual
Registers is the story of a hare pursued by a greyhound on the heights
above. The quarry leaped over the precipice, the pursuer followed, and
both were found dead hundreds of feet below. On the top of Mam Tor are
to be found the remains of an ancient entrenchment, interesting enough
but not comparable in point of preservation with those at Carl Wark,
about seven miles away.
Gaffers who repeat what their fathers have told them insist that a
battle was won on Win Hill, and that another was lost on Lose Hill,
two of the skyline features of the valley. But by whom this victory
was enjoyed or this defeat suffered it is impossible to acquire any
reliable information. As a rule they are attributed to the Romans and
to Oliver Cromwell.
At Bradwell, a somewhat drab village a mile or two from Castleton, is
a lesser-known but equally interesting cavern. Poets have first seen
the light at Bradwell, and the names of the various curiosities were
evidently bestowed by a well-read local genius. One may see there, not
only Calypso’s Cave, but the Straits of Gibraltar and Lot’s Wife.
Such as enjoy weird tremors and love to imagine tales of oldfashioned
sensationalism will find Castleton vividly interesting. There, in spite
of the new life brought of late years by the railway, it is still
possible to believe oneself in the brave old days of romance.
THE HILLS AND MOORS
Kinderscout, which rises to a height of 2088 feet, is the loftiest
Peakland mountain. This is best approached by way of the Ashop valley,
a deep green hollow, sparsely wooded, that starts from the junction
of the Ashop and the Derwent. On the hillsides are to be seen grey
farmsteads as remotely situated as Wuthering Heights, and only reached
by rough stony field tracks. In some places sledges are used instead
of carts for the transport of hay and bracken. An old Roman road runs
along the ridge to the left, and descends into the Edale valley south
of a stone guide post that was reared in 1737.
The Ashop cannot be described as beautiful; it is a wild little river,
shallow in summer but after storms flowing in high flood. The water
is stained sherry-brown with the peat from the uplands. There is a
bleak inn called the “Snake” just before the road rises for its steep
climb in the direction of Glossop. This and the “Cat and Fiddle”, near
Buxton, are the loneliest houses of refreshment in the district.
Half a mile beyond the “Snake” a path leads from the highway, descends
to the stream, and then rises to the heart of the moors. The scenery is
impressively grand, but not lovely; although in winter, when the snow
wreaths are curled and twisted mysteriously, there is an indescribable,
awe-inspiring charm. In certain lights the moors are even weirder than
the winding caves of Castleton. There, when dusk of evening falls,
one can readily forget the stress of modern life, and believe oneself
in the days when metal was unknown and men slew men with weapons of
stone. The last cries of grouse and snipe sound hollow and uncanny; the
heavy beating of eagle’s wings would cause no surprise. At the approach
of human footsteps, sheep glide from the shadows, gather together in
little bands, and stampede into the farther darkness.
Even on a warm summer’s day the silence and the solitude are strangely
disconcerting. The earth seems blacker than elsewhere, the rank grass
less fresh and green. The tracks thread mosses of extreme danger--I
myself have seen a brave man well-nigh swallowed by the thick and
evil-smelling mud. Doubtless through the centuries Kinderscout has
been the scene of many unknown tragedies.
There is a famous cataract, known as the Kinder Downfall, which after
heavy rain is visible from a distance of ten miles. This is best
visited after a month of frost, glittering in the sunlight like molten
silver. Of a cavern not far away are told several curious and thrilling
stories.
On the “edges” are seen fantastical rocks. As one walks down the Ashop
valley one catches a glimpse of the “Coach and Horses” high above--a
singular group that appears to move and move and pass out of sight.
Above the neighbouring valley of the upper Derwent are others with
homelier names, such as the “Cakes of Bread”, the “Salt Cellar”, and
the “Lost Lad”. The old folk who christened these landmarks had a just
sense of comparison. Another of these isolated masses of stone is the
“Eagle Stone”, a great pile not unlike a cornstack, that stands in
dignified solitude. There is a tradition that, centuries ago, no lad
of Baslow, the nearest village, was permitted to marry until he had
climbed to the top.