WORDS & PICTURES: Hannah Foster-Roe
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Emerging from an unseasonal heatwave, the English spring soon returns to weather for which it is far better known; fresh and cool, with an eager sun bulging behind the clouds, fighting to burst through. But it is the Thursday before Easter 2021, and not even the elements can stop me bouncing out of bed today. With England’s stay-at-home orders now lifted and replaced with “stay local”, I am deep in Derbyshire’s Peak District within less than an hour’s drive.
After parking up in nearby Monyash, a steep descent feeds into the emerald valley of Lathkill Dale. Nature’s surround-sound of birdsong and coursing water is life-affirming; a level of tranquillity somewhat elusive to attain of late. Over in Bakewell, blossom trees fill out in shades of candyfloss and cotton wool, contrasting against the terraced cottages built from blackened stone. Outside the Old Original Bakewell Pudding Shop, crowds gather at the windows; lips smacking greedily against the sugary waft of marzipan.
Pastry crumbs still dusting the collar of my coat, I scarcely complement the elegant grounds awaiting at Chatsworth House. Having doubled as Pemberley in the 2005 film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, it is near impossible to not get swept up in the romance of the setting. A slow saunter through the grassy fields of the Peak District brings me face-to-face with a vast herd of red deer, and I am stared down by a gang of their majestic stags. Can they smell the pastry!? I make a point not to meet their steely eyes.
In sleepy little Eyam, shadows of a past bear more than a fleeting resemblance to our present times. Labelled England’s ‘Plague Village’, the Black Death came to Eyam in 1665 after infested fleas stowed away amongst a shipment of cloth sent from London. In a movement we will all recognise too well, the village entered lockdown; closing borders and choosing to isolate itself in order to halt the spread. Reminders of this decision are everywhere: from the green plaques marking former homes of the deceased, to the graves of entire families lost to the disease.
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Golden hour falls across the Hope Valley and as I reach the jagged outcrops of Bamford Edge, a lump lodges in my throat; one day trip is simply not enough to drink in all the remote, rugged beauty of the Peak District. In my desperation to reconcile six sedentary months without adventure of any kind, I have gone and over-packed my itinerary. So, there is nothing for it but to return the following Monday, where I cross the Staffordshire wilderness into Buxton, before crawling through the prehistoric landscapes of Winnats Pass; its green crags like the spiny backs of dinosaurs.
On the other side of the Pass, between the Dark Peak and White Peak areas of the national park, lies Castleton. The village derives its name from Peveril Castle; the ruins of which stand sentry on a cliff overlooking life below and the heaving form of Mam Tor – the Mother Hill – in the distance.
South from here, Ashford-in-the-Water is about as picturesque and pristine as it gets. The sight of every empty pub and gated hotel is heart-breaking; menus in glass cases outside the entrances, suspended in time and frozen in commemoration of winter dishes barely served. On Sheepwash Bridge, I am lured into an impromptu photoshoot with a friendly duck – who turns out to be a most obliging client.
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My final stop – for now – is Stanton Moor, just outside Matlock, and the mysterious Nine Ladies Stone Circle. Folklore dictates that the stones date back at least four millennia, and symbolise the petrified remains of nine women punished for dancing on the sabbath. Their accompanist, a fiddler, is also believed to have suffered the same fate; a lone boulder named ‘The King Stone’ lying 40m beyond the circle. It seems a fitting place to end this journey, in a clearing bathed in sunbeams that have finally succeeded in cracking the sky.
