Close To The Edge

A gentle ramble from Hathersage to the heights of Stanage Edge. Part One.

Saturday arrived on the heels of two of the most difficult and personally painful days I've ever had to live through; the need to get out somewhere and breathe clean air spurred me to catch a train out to the Hope Valley. This was a spontaneous walk with no planning so by the time I'd got my gear together and rustled up some provisions the next train was due to depart at 13.14 but despite my expectations the carriages were relatively quiet and had plenty of free seats.

The weather was warm but overcast when we pulled into Hathersage station, I spent a customary 10 minutes checking gear, arranging camera-bag straps and stowing various items in particular pockets and flaps where I might access them as needed. There was a steady breeze and I paused for a moment to breathe deeply; some of the tension and pain melted away. I felt good, ready to explore and perhaps find a measure of peace out in the wilderness.

My immediate impression of Hathersage was not positive as I walked along the narrow pavement down to the village, beside a road that absolutely roared with traffic. I was headed for the church to start my walk from the grave of Little John and found the streets full of day-trippers, hikers, camping parties, Scouts, Guides, bikers and climbers. The little area around the public toilets was filled with rucksacks and their owners milling around and chatting; the inhabitants of the village must lock themselves in doors during the summer season.

The route of escape from the crowds.

I was going to loosely follow a route from my guidebook, which directed me down Baulk Lane, however from there I decided to detour to the church and then find my own way back onto the route somewhere near North Lees Hall. The quiet lane bolstered my spirits, wherever the crowds were headed, it didn't seem to be here and I enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere that contrasted from the main road just a few yards away.

A glimpse into the real Hathersage village, hidden away from the crowds.

 Through the trees in the distance a cricket match was in full swing, away from the thundering traffic it felt almost like I had been transported back to a pre-internet and mobile phone world, one with cricket, Pimms and cucumber sandwiches. Smiling to myself and lost in this fanciful reverie I turned off from the lane, down alongside the boundary of a field with a large walled garden at the top perimeter.

There I met a lovely elderly lady, clearly a resident and we talked a moment about the solitary nature of a particular sheep in the neighbouring field, which warmed my heart no end.

The footpath now ran beside a large wall with the open field and it's antisocial occupant on the right; my nostalgic mood continued when I noticed that thistles were covered in cuckoo spit, something I remembered fondly from my childhood.

Cuckoo spit also known as frog spit and snake spit, protecting inside a juvenile form of the Froghopper insect. I've seen the spit before and even the nymph that produces it but I have no idea what an adult looks like.

The path led to a gate that opened on to a graveyard with the church spire of St Michael & All Saints rising above a canopy of yew trees.

The spire of St Michael & All Saints, Hathersage.

My eye was caught by a large decorative cross on a low wall, I presumed that it must have come from the main body of the church, storm damage perhaps.

The church was very handsome, the stone carvings weathered and blackened by years of local coal fires. A small crowd of walkers had also made the journey to the church but I didn't mind sharing this peaceful spot with them. The church and it's graveyard had many interesting features and I spent half an hour wandering around.

The church had numerous carvings decorating it's walls, not quite gargoyles but still pretty creepy. I love buildings like this with doors and gateways that lead to nowhere, it leaves the imagination to fill in the gaps.

A gateway to someone's garden, maybe a tool shed or a lost set of catacombs beneath the church?  I'll leave that to your imagination!

I was aware that I hadn't really started the walk yet so I found Little John's grave, paid a pound into the donation box-come-traffic metre (really!) and set off to find a footpath that would lead me over to North Lees Hall.

In 1780 James Shuttleworth found a thigh bone big enough to make it's owner  over  8 feet tall. With so many local folklore connections to Robin Hood, who else could it have been?

The weather had improved, the sun was shining, birds singing and insects buzzed in the undergrowth. I walked past a mound called Camp Green, a large earthworks thought to have origins with Danish invaders then fortified by the Normans. I descended down a set of stairs into a bright tree-lined meadow, steeps hills rose above the treetops even higher.

Looking back towards the church and Hathersage from the meadow.

The meadow near Camp Green filled with buttercups, clovers and grasses. 

I was travelling roughly parallel to the walking guide route but slightly higher up on the hill-face, however I was soon presented with a choice of possible footpaths which on the map were too close together to be able to identify clearly from the selection in front of me.

Choice is all very well but sometimes it's a little over-whelming!

I selected the most likely looking footpath and continued on my way, this section was particularly lovely with meadows on all sides, glowing in the afternoon sun and framed by rolling hills in the distance. It was only slightly spoilt by creepy looking flies that settled on me; I had grown up with the summer-time joys of horse-flies and cleggs and these had a similar air of maliciousness.

The rolling meadows festooned with wild-flowers of all kinds. Creepy livestock flies not shown.

Soon on the far horizon I could make out North Lees Hall and towering above, the huge looming wall of the grit-stone escarpment that is Stanage Edge. The footpath had taken me beneath Birchin Wood and I arrived at a farmstead at Cowclose, where 10 minutes were spent investigating a huge rotting log with deadly looking fungi growing on it's flanks.

A bracket fungi, which I think might be called sulphur shelf, Laetiporus suphureus but don't hold me to that. 

There were plenty of sheep loitering around in small gangs and instead of skittering off simply regarded me with cool and practised nonchalance. A group even posed in a dramatic tableau.

The path dropped down and joined a tarmac road at a camp-site, this was the point where I picked up the guidebook's route, I found the driveway it mentioned, my attention was caught by foxgloves and I spent a few moments trying to persuade my camera to capture their colourful but surprisingly hairy flowers in all their glory.

Foxgloves, Digitalis purpurea.

Due it's deadly reputation Foxgloves have also been known as dead-man's bells and witch's gloves.

Foxgloves have an interesting association in folklore and folk-medicine, I wanted to write a little piece about it here but it's far too complex for me to understand properly. It is deadly though and from what I can understand it's poisonous effects alter the beating of the heart and also the brain affecting vision. Although, as is often the case, the properties that cause such toxic reactions are the same that can be harnessed for medical treatments, Digoxigenin a steroid, for example used in molecular biology. But out in the sun I was just fascinated by their colour, shape and how the bees busily attended them. 

The driveway was long with more meadows on the other side of a low wall and over the crest of a gentle hill North Lees Hall came into view. 

A stunning building that undeniably shouts antiquity, a tower house built in the late 16th century attributed to the Elizabethan architect Robert Smythson on the basis of it's architectural style. Linked to Charlotte Bronte and thought to be her inspiration for Thornfield Hall in the novel Jayne Eyre.

North Lees Hall, a stunning building.

By now I was looking for somewhere to have a sit down, a drink from my flask and a bite to eat but nowhere seemed suitable so I pressed on toward Stanage Edge that stood imposing on the near horizon.

Stanage Edge, a gritstone escarpment, 1,502ft or 458m at High Neb, it's highest point. Popular with climbers and walkers, the amazing views are worth the crowds.

Ten minutes later the footpath crossed another road, one that ran parallel with Stanage Edge and links a number of car parks and picnic areas. To my right, much to my surprise although very welcome was a toilet block and enclosed by an enormous drift of nettles, a wooden seat in the sun. Perfect.