Peak--the “Roches” that dominate the moorlands above Leek. There is
a narrow ravine known as “Ludchurch”, which is said to have been a
Lollard’s hiding place. The view from the sharply descending road
is very fine. In the distance lies the manufacturing town, nowise
unpleasing to the eye even when more closely approached. Usually one
sees it lightly covered with a haze of bluish smoke.
As a moorland vignette I know of no place more perfect than the valley
of the Burbage, a brown lively stream that gathers together on the
uplands between Sheffield and Hathersage. At some slight distance is
Longshaw Lodge, the shooting box of the Duke of Rutland, which boasts
perhaps the best situation of any house in the district. With its heavy
background of trees this quaint irregular place scarce seems real--one
might be looking upon some strange old woodcut. Within a stone’s throw
of Longshaw stands “Fox House”, a hostelry which, built in the early
part of the nineteenth century, might have come down to us unaltered
from the days of Elizabeth. The stonework is grey and massive; the
windows are of diamond lattice. Thence the road slopes down to the
stream, curving abruptly at the one-arched bridge just before the
grotesque block of gritstone aptly christened the “Toad’s Mouth”.
Winter and summer alike this valley is full of restful beauty. High
above are to be seen the ridge of Higgar Tor, where the daylight creeps
through the arched stones, and the ancient stronghold of Carl Wark,
an oblong enclosure covering several acres. These heights are seldom
visited, the moorland here being strictly preserved. From the heathy
banks to the right of the road descend little springs of surpassing
clearness. The waters of these are sweet and refreshing; but if one
drinks of the Burbage a bitter taste remains.
[Illustration: MAM TOR]
A mile or so beyond the “Toad’s Mouth” the road reaches Millstone Edge
Nick, a gap between rough gritstone rocks, where one looks down upon
what is regarded as one of the finest views in England. Far below
glides the Derwent, only visible here and there--notably at the bridge
of Leadmill. In the distance is the Hope valley, with Win Hill and Lose
Hill and Mam Tor. The dale of the young Derwent, that descends from the
heart of the moorland country, opens to the right; one sees along the
skyline the ridges of Bamford Edge. Hathersage lies tranquilly in a
hollow, its fine spire dominating the ancient grey-roofed houses.
To the left, near at hand, is an immense quarry, a place of rich
colouring, which although it has mutilated the hillside has taken but
little from its beauty. Far below one sees toy trains running upon
lines no bigger than spiders’ threads. For some mysterious reason the
noise of whistling and the sight of escaping steam do not effect one’s
enjoyment in this prospect--perhaps because the contours are too fine
to be affected by utilitarianism.
Above Grindleford the straight line of the Sir William road climbs
to the summit of Eyam Moor, with its neighbouring mine chimneys of
Ladywash and New Engine for striking landmarks. Once an important
highway, this road is no longer frequented save by farmers. It
is sandy, deep-rutted; on the green banks grow wild thyme and
many-coloured pansies. There also may be found the curious little
moonwort, of which Culpeper writes that it is “an herb which will open
locks and unshoe such horses as tread upon it. This some laugh to
scorn, and these no small fools neither; but country people, that I
know, call it Unshoe the Horse.”
Eyam Moor has none of the depressing grandeur of the Kinderscout
region; its beauty is softer and more ingratiating. A place to walk
over in the still hours of a summer’s night, when the grey paths are
only faintly visible, and there is no sound save the whirring of the
goatsucker’s wings. And at dawn one hears the cold singing of the larks
overhead, as they welcome the rising sun, as yet unseen by mortal folk.
Of an evening, too, in winter, one sees the clouds gathering over the
uplands of Middleton Moor, like goblins making their way towards some
monstrous ark.
Farther down the valley uprises Froggatt Edge, with a magnificent range
of nutbrown rocks. The rowan grows luxuriantly upon the steep slopes,
and in autumn there is a glorious display of fox-coloured bracken.
Far below, the river moves sleepily between loamy banks, forced into
servitude for the Calver mill. After the weir it dances, like a child
released from tedious school, through pleasant meadow, past St. Mary’s
Nook, past the hall of Bubnell, which is mentioned in _The Compleat
Angler_, and soon, quiet and dignified, glides within a bowshot of the
great house of Chatsworth.
The Barbrook, which rises on the moors beyond Curbar Edge, is one of
the shortest and prettiest of the Peakland streams. Near the lately
constructed reservoir, which has all the appearance of a natural lake,
it passes down a heathery little clough, at whose end is to be seen a
scattered grove of silver birch and larch, then, dipping under a rough
bridge, runs along a green stretch by the road to an old mill dam.
After leaving this it gambols through a ravine that might have been
stolen from the Highlands, and soon reaches the Nether End of Baslow,
where it enters the park, to mingle unperceived with the Derwent.
The heights of Longstone Edge are mournful and suggestive. A long
cutting, called the “Deep Rake”, made by the mining folk of old
time, stretches here, its scarred sides steep and coldly coloured. At
intervals are pools of great depth and sinister aspect, and in a grove
that crowns the summit stands a farmhouse with tragical memories.
Across this upland an ancient bridle track, but little used nowadays,
crosses from Middleton Dale to the tranquil fields of Hassop, one of
the most interesting estates in the whole of Peakland.
Perhaps the dreariest moorland of all stretches along the hilltop
above Beeley and Chatsworth. This is intolerably bleak, and only in
late autumn seems to warm into life. It is criss-crossed with rough
sandy roads--roads with worn pillars for milestones, whereon are carved
ghastly skeleton hands and ill-spelt names of towns. All is silent save
for the wail of peewits and the harrowing whistle of curlews. Here
and there stand small farmsteads, the gritstone blackened with age.
Unlike the village folk, the inhabitants of this remote country are not
house-proud; apparently they trouble little about the outer or inner
embellishment of their homes. It is in such out-of-the-way places that
one hears the dialect to perfection, and learns, if one is so minded,
much strange wisdom acquired by many generations spent in isolation
from the living world.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.