BY THE MIDLAND LINE.
But the dell,
Bathed in the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,
When through its half-transparent stalks at eve
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
The opening of the Midland line through Marple, like that of the L. &
N. W. through Disley, was hailed with immense delight by all lovers of
country rambles. Access thereto previously was possible only on foot,
or by canal, and in either case the journey was rather long. Chadkirk,
soon reached, is a celebrated old village thought by some to preserve
the name of the once greatly-honoured patron-saint commemorated also
in Chadderton, Chaddock, Chatburn, and Chat Moss; by others, to refer
to one "Earl Cedda." Be that as it may, the tradition of the old
missionary's once abiding here still clings to Chadkirk, and a clear
spring by the roadside, upon the left, going up the hill near the
church, and now lined with mosses, is to this day "St. Chad's well."
The earliest ecclesiastical notice of the place does not occur till
temp. Henry VIII. The hill itself, Werneth Low, is one of the highest
in Cheshire, and the first of several such in that odd piece of the
county which runs away to the north-east, stretched forth, as an old
topographer says, "like the wing of an eagle." Like all the other
eminences hereabouts, it commands very noble and extensive views. So
complete, in truth, is the look-out in all directions from the summit,
that to walk from end to end, is like pacing a watch-tower. The plains
of Cheshire and South Lancashire lie to the west; Lyme, Marple, and
Disley are seen to the south; and eastwards there are inviting bits
of Derbyshire, here separated from Cheshire by the Etherowe, the
opposite side charmingly clothed by the Ernocroft woods, while in the
distance rise the vast moorlands of Charlesworth and Glossop. If bound
for Werneth Low it is best, perhaps, after all, to quit the train at
Woodley, or to make our way to that place from Parkwood. In any case,
until Werneth Low has been ascended, knowledge of our local scenery is
decidedly immature.
The long and beautifully wooded glen extending from Romiley to Marple
is Chadkirk Vale, and the stream, not as some suppose, the Mersey,
but the above-named Goyt. That it is marked as the Mersey in Speed,
and again in the Ordnance map, no doubt is true. White also calls it
the Mersey,--all who do this considering that the Mersey begins with
the confluence of the Etherowe with the Goyt, about half-a-mile below
Compstall bridge. But the real point of commencing is where the Goyt
is joined by the Tame, that is to say, a little below Portwood bridge,
in the north-western suburb of Stockport. The ramble up the vale is in
every portion delightful, closing in a deep ravine or clough called
Marple Dell, the upper extremity spanned by the three great arches of
"Marple Aqueduct." The height of this celebrated work from the bed of
the river is nearly a hundred feet; yet, to-day it is overtopped by the
Midland viaduct, from which, as we glide past, the dell is seen half
as much again below. Aqueducts are common enough, and so are viaducts,
but it is seldom that we have the opportunity of contemplating at the
same moment a twofold series of arches of equal grandeur, the viaduct
consisting of no fewer than thirteen. Everywhere right and left of
the Goyt, hereabouts, there are unforbidden and usually quiet and
shady paths, some of them possibly entered more readily by the ancient
foot-roads from near Bredbury and Hazel-grove, but all converging
towards Marple village. Three or four of the most interesting little
cloughs or dells within the same distance of Manchester are here
associated, the prettiest, perhaps, being those called Dan-bank wood
and Marple wood. Lovely strolls are at command also by aiming for
Otterspool Bridge, these chiefly through meadows and by the rapid
river, which, when not perplexed by shifting islands and peninsulas,
decked with willow-herb and butter-bur, glides with a stilly smoothness
quite remarkable for one so shallow. At Otterspool the rush of water is
sometimes very strong. In the olden times it was similar at Stockport,
though now subdued by the constant casting in of dirt, if there be
truth, that is, in the record that in 1745, when the Stockport bridge
was blown up in order to check the retreat of the Pretender, it ran
beneath the arches "with great fury." Upon the western banks of the
Goyt, not very far from Chadkirk, perched upon a romantic natural
terrace, there is another very interesting and celebrated Elizabethan
mansion, Marple Old Hall, the more pleasing since, though subjected in
1659 to rather considerable alterations, it appears to retain all the
best of the original characteristics. It is now draped also, in part,
with luxuriant ivy. The historical incidents connected with Marple
Hall are well known,--those, at least, which gather round the name of
Cromwell. To our own mind there is something better yet,--the spectacle
in the earliest months of spring of the innumerable snowdrops, these
dressing the woods and slopes with their immaculate purity, almost to
the water's edge.
Proceeding direct to Marple by the Midland, the choicest of the many
walks now at command begins with descent of the hill upon the left,
then, as soon as the river is reached,--keeping as near it as may be
practicable,--through the lanes and meadows as far as "Arkwright's
Mill." No Ancoats mill is this one. Originally called "Bottoms Mill,"
it was erected in 1790 by the celebrated Mr. Samuel Oldknow, of whom
so many memorials exist in the neighbourhood, including a lettered
tablet in Marple church, and who would seem to have been associated
with Arkwright in many of his most important undertakings. The mill
in question was built, as Mr. Joel Wainwright correctly states,[18]
upon the lines of the famous one at Cromford. Embosomed in a romantic
valley, and surrounded by fine trees, among which are walnuts--for in
tree-planting, as in other things, Mr. Oldknow displayed exceptional
good taste--it gives the idea less of a cotton-mill than of some
great institute or retreat, and proves that in the country, at least,
scenes of manufacturing need not by any means be, as usual, depôts
of ugliness. Soon after passing the mill, the path continues by the
river-side, through pleasant meads and under the shadow of the trees
to the point where the stream is crossed by Windybottom Bridge, where
the hill has now to be ascended, either leftwards for Marple Ridge and
Disley, or turning to the right for Marple village. Either way, the
walk is delightful, and always at an end too soon. Another charming
way from Arkwright's mill to the bridge is along the slope on the
Derbyshire side of the water, called Strawberry Hill, but this is only
for the privileged. Down in this sequestered valley, if we love the
sight of wild-flowers, there is always great store; in May the fragrant
wild-anise, and in autumn the campanula.
A third excellent Marple walk is to go up the hill from the station,
turn instantly to the right just above the line, and alongside of it,
and at the distance of a hundred yards or so find our way to the bank
of the canal, crossing this and entering the fields through a stile.
The path then goes past Lea Hey farm, and after awhile past Nab Top
farm, beautiful prospects all the way. On the right, far below, we now
soon have the river, eventually treading the meadows called Marple
Dale, through which it meanders, and at the end of which the path
mounts through the wood and enters Marple Park, the way back to the
village now self-declared.
After Strines, from near which place there is another way to Cobden
Edge, next, if travelling by train, we get to New Mills, and before
long to Chapel-en-le-Frith, once again a point for new beginning,
since it is here that we start for Castleton. This is a jaunt purely
for pedestrians, and for vehicles not unwilling to linger on the way,
being one long climb, from which even steam, that, like Lord Chatham,
"tramples upon impossibilities," for the present seems to shrink.
England furnishes few such walks as this one from Chapel to Castleton,
the concluding part in particular, by the ancient bridle-path, through
the Windgates, or "Winnats,"--crags rising upon each side to a height
so vast that at times we seem absolutely shut in. The hugeness and
the loneliness of this wonderful chasm, the bare grey slopes and
bluffs of projecting rock relieved only by the presence of a few
sheep, powerfully recall the great passes amid the mountains of the
distant north. Once, however, it must have been comparatively well
trodden, the Winnats, up to about eighty years ago, having been the
sole thoroughfare from Chapel into Hope Dale. The high-road now curls
round by the foot of Mam Tor, or the "Shivering Mountain," so called
because of the continual dribbling away upon one side of the loose
material of which this singular pile chiefly consists. The apex of
Mam Tor is one thousand three hundred and fifty feet above the sea,
yet so great is the elevation of all the surrounding country that it
seems quite inconsiderable. Everywhere hereabouts, in fact throughout
the journey, after leaving Chapel, a remarkable negative feature of
the scenery is the absence of water. Plenty of the little recesses are
here that remind us of those afar where moisture drips and sparkles
on green moss. But we look in vain for the slightest trickling
movement. There are none of the little springs which ordinarily upon
the mountain-side seem longing for the time when they shall become
cascades. In Lancashire a pass like the Winnats would have had a
splashing and plentiful stream, or at all events would remind us of a
Palestine wady. It is further remarkable that upon these hills there
is no heather, nor is there a single plant of either whortleberry or
bracken. The great attraction at Castleton consists in the caverns.
The Blue-john mine should be visited in order to learn what stalactite
drapery means; but the best part of the "Peak-cavern" is the vestibule,
open to the daylight. Pushing into the interior, the vast altitude of
one small portion, revealed for a moment by means of fireworks, no
doubt has a kind of sublimity. Still there is nothing to please, unless
it be pleasure to stand in a dark inferno that seems no part of our own
world, and which can scarcely be entered without a feeling of dismay.
The ruins of Peveril Castle, and the fine old Norman arch in Castleton
church are both very interesting to the archæologist. The position of
the former is most curious, the castle seeming from the foot of the
hill to stand upon a simple slope of turf, whereas in reality just
behind it there is an impassable abyss.
This inestimable line, the Midland, carries us also to "Miller's Dale,"
from which station there is a branch at an acute returning angle to
Buxton; thence onwards to "Monsal Dale," Hassop, Bakewell, Rowsley,
Darley, and Matlock. Monsal Dale, _ipsissima_, has been called the
"Arcadia of the Peak." It may be so. Remembering the ancient and golden
canon that it is the eye of the lover that makes the beauty, the
judgment may be let stand as one that was true and just to the man who
pronounced it. The poet asks, "Who can paint like nature?" Surely he
forgot the sweet facility of the human heart; in any case, there are
no festoons like those woven by the spirit of man. Hassop, the next
in order, is the nearest point of departure, on foot, for Chatsworth,
though Bakewell has somewhat the advantage as regards scenery upon the
way. Bakewell is the centre also for Haddon Hall, reached thence, on
foot, in half an hour. Rowsley supplies the carriage-way to Chatsworth,
and a shady and retired walk thereto along the western side of the
stream. From this point also access is easy to Lathkill Dale, and many
another of the gems of Derbyshire. Darley Dale, with its majestic yew,
one of the oldest and grandest trees in England, and Matlock, with its
mighty Tor, are places for the longest of summer days--we can do with
no less--when the sunshine is oriental and sunset is a kaleidoscope.
For a simple afternoon, there is nothing within easy reach more
delicious than Miller's Dale itself, the significance of which name is
really the lucid and babbling Wye, in its sweetest portion, and the
unique recess which holds Chee Tor, not to mention the pretty Wormhill
springs. The entrance to the vale is close to the station, the path
lying first through a long-extended grove of trees, then changing to
the green turf of a most beautiful seclusion, the ground rising in
pleasant slopes, smooth except where broken by uncovered rock, while
by our side, all the way, the stream runs peacefully, circling at
times in quiet pools, or quickening in ripples that seem to speak, the
shallower parts decked with pebbles that are covered, when the sun
shines, with lacework of leaf-shadows. The springs are at the foot of
the slope where a steep and rugged path leads to Wormhill. The water
wells out of the ground just as in the streets of a city when some
great conduit underneath has given way, being derived, there can be no
doubt, from some far-distant original source, whence it has travelled
by secret subterranean channels. The phenomenon is in Derbyshire by
no means an uncommon one. Streams in several places suddenly lose
themselves in the ground, bursting out again, it may be miles away,
after the manner of the Guadalquiver;--here, at Wormhill, it appears,
nevertheless, to have its most pleasing illustration. The Tor is found
in the magnificent gorge in front, a stupendous mass of limestone,
rising vertically from the water's edge, with a grand curvilinear
outline of nearly a quarter of a mile in extent, the surface uniformly
grey and bare, except for scattered ivy and a few iron-like yews
that are anchored in the crevices. Upon the opposite side there is a
corresponding cliff, but less precipitous, and clothed in every part
with half-pendulous shrubs and trees. This wonderful scene may be
reached also from Ashwood Dale, starting from Buxton, and when about
half-way to Bakewell creeping down on the left to the margin of the
stream. The path is romantic, but cannot be recommended, being in many
parts difficult and here and there decidedly perilous.
[Illustration]
Footnote
[18: In his very interesting "Reminiscences of a Lifetime
in Marple and the Neighbourhood," 1882, a contribution to our local
literature which in the accuracy and variety of its entertaining
details does the author genuine credit.]
[Illustration]