[Illustration: 0113]
|THE traveller into Derbyshire, unaccustomed to the district, may not
unnaturally inquire for "the Peak," which he has been taught to consider
one of the chief English mountains, and the name of which has always
suggested to him something like a pyramid of rock,--an English
Matterhorn. He will be soon undeceived, and then may paradoxically
declare the peculiarity of "the Peak District" to be that there is no
Peak! The range so called is a bulky mass of millstone grit, rising
irregularly from the limestone | formation which occupies the southern
part of Derbyshire, and extending in long spurs, or arms, north and
north-east into Yorkshire as far as Sheffield, and west and south into
Cheshire and Staffordshire. The plateau is covered by wild moorland,
clothed with fern, moss and heather, and broken up by deep hollows and
glens, through which streamlets descend, each through its own belt of
verdure, from the spongy morasses above, forming in their course many a
minute but picturesque waterfall. The pedestrian who establishes himself
in the little inn at Ashopton, will have the opportunity of exploring
many a breezy height and romantic glen; while, if he has strength of
limb and of lungs to make his way to Kinderscout, the highest point of
all, he will breathe, at the elevation of not quite two thousand feet,
as fresh and exhilarating an atmosphere as can be found anywhere in
these islands; the busy smoky city of Manchester being at a distance,
"as the crow flies," of little more than fifteen miles! It is no wonder
that a select company of hard-worked men, who have lighted on this nook
among the hills, having a taste for natural history, resort hither year
after year, finding a refreshment in the repeated visit equal at least
to that which their fellow-citizens enjoy, at greater cost, in the
terraces of Buxton, or on the gigantic slope of Matlock Bank.
Where the limestone emerges from under the mass of grit, the scenery
altogether changes. For roughly-rounded, dark-coloured rocks, covered
with ling and bracken, now appear narrow glens, bold escarped edges,
cliffs splintered into pinnacles and pierced by wonderful caves
traversed by hidden streams. Of these caves the "Peak Cavern" at
Castleton is the largest, that of the "Blue John Mine" the most
beautiful, from its veins of Derbyshire spar.
The tourist, however, who confines himself to the Peak District proper,
with its immediately outlying scenery, will have a very inadequate view
of the charms of Derbyshire. He can scarcely do better than begin at the
other extremity, ascending the Dove through its limestone valley as far
as Buxton, thence taking rail to Chapel-en-le-Frith, expatiating over
the Peak moorlands according to time and inclination, descending to the
limestone region again at Castleton, and following the Derwent in its
downward course to Ambergate, pausing in his way to visit Chatsworth and
Haddon Hall, and to stay awhile at Matlock.
Having thus planned our own journey, our starting-point was Ashbourne,
a quiet, pretty little town at the extremity of a branch railway.
There was not much in the town itself to detain us: we could only pay
a hurried visit to the church, whose beautiful spire, 212 feet high,
is sometimes called the Pride of the Peak. There are some striking
monuments; and among them one with an inscription of almost unequalled
mournfulness. It is to an only child, a daughter: "She was in form and
intellect most exquisite. The unfortunate parents ventured their all on
this frail bark, and the wreck was total." Never was plaint of sorrowing
despair more touching. Let us hope, both that the parents' darling was
a lamb in the Good Shepherd's fold, and that the sorrowing father and
mother found at length that there can be no total wreck to those whose
treasure is in heaven!
A night's refreshing rest at the inn, where several nationalities
oddly combine to make up one complex sign--the fierce Saracen, the
thick-lipped negro, the English huntsman in his coat of Lincoln
green!--and we sallied forth on a glorious day of early autumn to make
our first acquaintance with Dovedale. Leaving the town at the extremity
furthest from the railway station, we found ourselves on a well-kept,
undulating road, skirted by fair pastures on either hand; the absence
of cornfields being a very marked feature in the landscape. Turning into
pleasant country lanes to the left, we soon reached the garden gate of
a finely-situated rural inn, the "Peveril ut' the Peak," whence a short
cut would have led us over the brow of the hill into Dovedale; but we
were anxious to visit Ilam, and therefore made a détour as far as the
"Izaak Walton," so well known to brothers of the "gentle craft." A
little farther, and we were in the identical Happy Valley of Rasselas,
where we found a charming little village, with schoolhouse and
drinking-fountain, park and hall and church, and every cottage a
picture.
[Illustration: 0116]
Two little rivers meet here, one of them the Manifold, the other and
larger the Dove; and after a hurried view of the lovely vale, we lost no
time in making our way to the entrance of the far-famed Dale. As most of
our readers will know, the Dove divides Staffordshire from Derbyshire:
we took the Derbyshire side, entering at a little gate on the river
bank, and leisurely and with many a pause pursued a walk with which
surely in England there are few to compare. The river is a shallow,
sparkling stream, with many a pool dear to the angler, and hurrying
down, babbling over pebbles, and broken in its course by many a tiny
waterfall. On both sides rise tall limestone cliffs, splintered into
countless fantastic forms--rocky walls, towers, and pinnacles, and in
one place a natural archway near the summit, leading to the uplands
beyond. And all up the sloping sides, and wherever root-hold could be
obtained on pinnacle and crag, were clustered shrubs and trees of
every shade of foliage, with the first touch of autumn to heighten the
exquisite variety by tints which as yet suggested only afar off the
thought of decay. The solitude of the scene served but to enhance its
loveliness. For that road by the river side is no broad well-beaten
track. No vehicle can pass, and even the pedestrian has sometimes to
pick his way with difficulty. The stillness, on the day of our visit,
was unbroken save for the murmur of the water, the twitter of the birds,
and the rustling of the branches in the gentle breeze. The blue sky
overhead, and the sunlight casting shadows upon the cliffs and the
stream, completed the picture; and if the memory of Izaak Walton and
Charles Cotton haunted their favourite stream, it so happened that we
encountered none of their disciples.
Many travellers leave the glen at Mill Dale, where a pleasant country
lane to the right enables them to gain the high road between Ashbourne
and Buxton. Time and strength permitting, however, we would strongly
advise the tourist to make his way by the river banks to Hartington,
passing through Beresford Dale, where at Pike Pool, represented in the
frontispiece to this chapter, all the beauties of the Dove Valley are
concentrated at one view. A limestone obelisk stands in the middle of
the river, with a background of rich foliage, just touched, at the
time of our visit, with autumnal hues, while the clear water eddied and
sparkled around its base. This pool was the favourite resort of Walton
and his friend Cotton. Many allusions to the spot will be found in _The
Complete Angler_; and the comfortable inn at Hartington, reached from
Beresford Dale by a walk for about a mile through pleasant meadows,
bears Charles Cotton's name.
At Hartington, the high road to Buxton may be taken; or, far better, the
traveller may make his way to the famous watering-place by the plateau
which divides the valley of the Dove from that of its tributary
Manifold; he will then descend to the former valley near Longnor, and
thence may climb to Axe Edge, a great outlying southerly branch or spur
of the gritstone, from which the Dove has its rise. Parting with this
lovely river at its very fountain-head, we find it difficult to believe
that so much beauty and even grandeur can have been included in the
twenty miles' course of a little English stream, and are ready to
endorse the enthusiastic tribute of Cotton:
"The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine
Are both too mean.
Beloved Dove, with thee
To claim priority:
Nay, Thame and Isis, when conjoined, submit
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet."
[Illustration: 0118]
At Buxton, easily reached from Axe Edge, we found every variety of
excursion and other enjoyments open to us, "for a consideration." The
Derbyshire dales that may be easily explored from this point are very
fine; and the whole of the Peak is open to the tourist. We could give,
however, but a hurried glance to these manifold beauties, being bent
upon descending the Derwent in some such leisurely fashion as that
in which we had ascended the Dove. We had, indeed, the railway now to
facilitate the latter half of our journey--no slight matter! and
yet this had the effect of bringing multitudes of travellers like
ourselves, so that the end of the Derbyshire tour was taken in company
with a crowd. For a time, however, we were comparatively alone to
Castleton, by Mam Tor, the wonderful "Shivering Mountain," where the
sandstone and mountain limestone meet;--so called from the loose shale
which is constantly descending its side, and which, in popular belief,
does not diminish the mountain's bulk: thence down through the Winnyats
or Windgates, a picturesque pass between lofty cliffs, taking its name
from the winds which are said to rage almost ceaselessly through the
narrow defile, although at the time of our visit the air was calm,
while the lights and shadows of a perfect autumn day beautified the grey
limestone crags.
[Illustration: 0119]
The ruins of Peveril's Castle, and the gloomy caves of Castleton, of
course were visited. Then began the journey down the Derwent, embracing
pretty Hather-sage, with its ancient camps, tumuli, and other remains
whose origin can only be conjectured. Here is the traditionary grave of
Robin Hood's gigantic comrade, "Little John." A "Gospel Stone" in this
village, once used as a pulpit, perpetuates the memory of the open-air
harvest and thanksgiving services of past generations; while in the
village of Eyam, three or four miles lower down, the "Pulpit Rock," in
a natural dell still called a "church," brings to mind the heroism of a
devoted pastor, who during the plague of 1665, when it would have been
dangerous to meet in any building, daily assembled his parishioners in
this place to pray with them, to teach and to console.
[Illustration: 9120]
The traveller will not regret the slight détour from the road by the
river to visit this most interesting spot; and he may return to the
Derwent by Middleton Dale, another magnificent pass through limestone
cliffs. Hence he will soon reach Edensor, the "model village," and
Chatsworth, "the Palace of the Peak." The splendours of the park and
mansion are so familiar to thousands,--to whom in fact "the Peak
of Derbyshire" is a name suggestive only of Chatsworth and Haddon
Hall,--that we need attempt no description here. The visitor may follow
his own bent, whether to wander in the stately park, or to join the
hourly procession along the silken-roped avenue through the corridors
and apartments of the Hall, with due admiration of the pictures,
the statuary and the wonderful carving; thence passing out into the
conservatory and the gardens, where nature has done so much, and art so
much more. Truly days at Chatsworth are among the bright days of life,
especially if there be time and opportunity also to visit Haddon Hall,
that almost unique specimen of an old baronial English home, empty and
dismantled now, but carefully preserved and beautiful for situation,
upon the Derbyshire Wye, which here comes down from its own limestone
glens and dales through the pretty town of Bakewell, to unite at Rowsley
with the Derwent.
At this junction, too, the traveller comes upon the railway, and will be
tempted to pass only too rapidly by the beauties of the Derwent Valley
between Rowsley and Ambergate. We can but assure him that he will lose
much by so doing; that Darley Dale and Moor are very beautiful, and
that the tourist who rushes on to Matlock Bath without staying to climb
Matlock Bank does an injustice to Derbyshire scenery: while if he be
in pursuit of health, he can find no better resting-place than at the
renowned | hydropathic establishments which occupy the heights.
[Illustration: 0121]
Still, most who are in search of the picturesque will prefer to seek it
at Matlock Bath, where indeed they will not be left to discover it
for themselves. In this famous spot the beauties of nature are all
catalogued, ticketed, and forced on the attention by signboards and
handbills. Here is the path to "the beautiful scenery" (admission so
much); there "the Romantic Rocks" (again a fee); there the ferry to "the
Lovers' Walk," a charming path by the river-side, overshadowed by trees,
and so on.
[Illustration: 0123]
Petrifying wells offer their rival attractions, and caves in the
limestone are repeatedly illuminated during the season for the delight
of excursionists. The market for fossils, spar, photographs, ferns, and
all the wonderful things that nobody buys except at watering-places, is
brisk and incessant. But when we have added to all this that the heights
are truly magnificent, the woods and river very charming, and the
arrangements of the hotels most homelike and satisfactory, it will not
be wondered at that the balance of pleasure remained largely in favour
of Matlock.
[Illustration: 0124]
It would be certainly pleasanter to discover for one's self that here
is "the Switzerland of England," than to have the fact thrust upon
attention by placards at every turn; but perhaps there are those to
whom the information thus afforded is welcome, while the enormous
highly-coloured pictures of valley, dale and crag which adorn every
railway station on the line, no doubt perform their part in attracting
and instructing visitors. They need certainly be at no loss to occupy
their time to advantage, whether their stay be longer or shorter.
[Illustration: 0125]
Everything is made easy for them. To all the noblest points of view,
easy paths have been constructed: the fatigue of mountain-climbing is
reduced to a minimum; and certainly the landscapes disclosed even from a
moderate elevation by the judicious pruning and removal of intercepting
foliage, are such as to repay most richly the moderate effort requisite
for the ascent. Lord Byron writes, that there are views in Derbyshire
"as noble as in Greece or Switzerland." He was probably thinking of the
prospect from Masson, from which the whole valley, with its boundary of
tors, or limestone cliffs, is outspread before the observer, while the
river sparkles beneath, reflecting masses of foliage, with depths of
heavenly blue between; and beyond the scarred and broken ramparts of the
glen, purple moorlands stretch away to the high and curving line of the
horizon.
The traveller southward, who has accompanied us thus far, if yet unsated
with beauty, will be wise in taking the road from Matlock to Cromford,
the next station, instead of proceeding by railway. The short walk
or drive between the limestone cliffs, although the great majority
of passengers pass it by unnoticed, is really, for its length, as
magnificent as almost any of the dales in the higher part of the
country. At Cromford there is the stately mansion of the Arkwrights,
and a little beyond, on the other side of the railway, is Lea Hurst,
the home of Miss Florence Nightingale, a name that will be gratefully
enshrined in the memories of the English people, even when war shall
be no more. From this spot the valley gradually broadens, still
richly-wooded up the heights, with fair meadows on the river banks. And
so we reach Ambergate, where we re-enter the busy world, bearing with us
ineffaceable memories of the beauties and the wonders of "the Peak."
[Illustration: 0126]
[Illustration: 0128]