Car to Bangor. Taught all morning. Zipped over to airport.
Plane to Boston. Wait. Wait. Plane to Heathrow. Train to
Paddington. Underground to Kingscross. Train to Edale.
Foot to B & B.
And if you can believe it, the dear who ran the B& B
apologized for not meeting me at the station, as if I could
have tolerated even another second of sitting. I'd spent a
lot of time the past few years imagining the valley between
Kinder Scout and Mam Tor, so even though I'd missed a
night's sleep, up to Hollins Cross I went. The day was gray,
cold, windy, but I was not disappointed as I walked toward
Mam Tor. All the people would usually be a turnoff, but I
reminded myself there were fewer on the whole hill than had
been clustered around the baggage carousel at the airport.
By the way, what was a through-walker who spends nights at
accommodation doing with checked baggage, you may ask.
Foolishly, I had strapped my walking stick to my pack,
exactly as I had ten weeks earlier when I was on my way to
Cornwall. But this time security in Boston jumped on it.
Apparently the 'sharp' point on the end triggered the
nanny response. I had to check the damn thing, lest I get
up to any hijinx in the aircraft. Anohter victory for
homeland security. On my way back, I took the basket off
the stick (it has a cane handle) and added a rubber tip.
Since I had a few blisters I didn't have to fake a tender
walk--and security opened all doors to me! Jumped me to
the head of the check-in line! Rushed my cane over to me
after I'd stepped through the metal screener. Called me
sir without the usual insolence! No checked baggage for
Mr. Gimpy, unh-unh.
Back to Mam Tor. One of the school girls said to her claque
as we approached the summit: "Girls, stop! Savor it!" Which
got a big laugh all around. I assume some teacher was being
mocked, but I thought the remark was very apposite. What
does one take away from a continuous stream of stimulation?
What is savored and remembered, what forgotten? I think
people get exhausted in museums because of the difficulty of
answering this. Since I'm not a photographer, I just wander
along almost positive that stopping to savor something is
not the key to making it part of my memory. But I will
remember the girl's comment, and I enjoyed my walk very
much. I went down to Edale, had a pint and supper, walked
back to my B & B, watched a little of 'Weakest Link' and
went to sleep.
Sunday was a not a travel day. I'd planned to stay a second
night in Edale. Another cold gray day, but not misty, and so
up the Pennine Trail, up Jacob's Ladder, and onto Kinder
Scout. After all the warnings I'd read about KS, aftrer
checking the website oif the local rescue service with its
litany of broken legs, ankles, and hypothermia, I was
terrified. I walked carefully, trying to avoid becoming, no
the one hand, one of those peat-men dug up three thousand
years later, or on the other, flattened body. My mood of
terror really didn't lift until I reached the head of
Grindsbrook Clough where I found myself surrounded by crowds
of eight year old girls in pink plastic Wellies, old-timers
jumping from rock to rock, young lovers drinking tea in
hollows out of the wind, etc. The place was crawling--more
people than Saturday on Mam Tor! I decided KS would have to
wait until another time to claim me as victim, and I
proceeded to Riinging Roger and down to Edale, where I tried
the other pub and then back to the B & B.
Next day, I climbed over Mam Tor, down to Castleton, up Cave
Dale (lovely) and was off on my trip. My biggest regret of
the day was not taking seriously the warning at the head of
Monks' Dale that the walking was rocky and difficult. Oh, I
was quick to sneer--difficult for a granny in a walker or a
family with a stroller! But for me! I was jumbled pretty
damn quick. What a pain--jumbled, incredibly slippery
limestone cobble. The kind of place you hope for mud as a
relief. Down Monsal Dale a bit and then into Taddington,
where my request for directions to the Waterloo Hotel was
met with incomprehension and head shakes, until finally the
woman I was talking to said, "Oh, do you mean the WATERLOO
Hotel?" Uh, isn't that what I said? Apparently, my flat
American accent had finally defeated the Duke.
Sometime I'll write about passive-aggressiveness in hotel
keepers, the kind of attitude that keeps them eating their
lunch while refusing to show the weary traveller his room.
("Haven't turned the heat on yet."😉 The kind that hears a
'half-pint of X and and a half-pint of Y' as a request for
a pint of half & half. Some people shouldn't be in the
people business.
Off the next morning and got lost in the mist in a few
minutes, my usual navigation skills coming to the front.
Sorted myself out and off to Chelmorton, Chrome Hill,
Crowdecote, and eventually my B & B, just outside
Hartington. I've been reading a biography of the fifth (?)
Duchess of Devonshire, Georgianna, and understood why the
pub in Hartington was the 'Duke of Devonshire.' Nice to be
able to interpret one or two of the surrounding surfaces.
Alas, closed, so I made do with the Cotton Hotel and a nice
Staffordshire oatcake stuffed with good things.
Next day was fair and fast walking down Wolfscote Dale,
Dovedale, to Ilam, and then up the Manifold Way to Wetton,
where the damn pub was closed for the day, so more walking
and over to Hopedale for a pint and a meal. Lovely walking,
lovely weather.
Rain next morning and blisters which dogged me all day as I
returned to the Dove, then up Biggin Dale, the Tissington
Trail, Monyash, down Lathkill Dale, and my overnight
accommodation. Two delightful shih-tzus in the pub, one of
whom licked and licked my hand, like my dear half-shihtsy,
Chloe, and the other who gently tugged on my sleeve and
cuffs, again just like Miss Chloe. I was missing my dogs
quite a bit by this point. My blisters were quite nasty by
this point. Foolishly I'd put heel cups in my boots to
lessen the chance of plantar fasciitis, but the reduced
volume, combined with the warm weather, combined with me
stupidly forgetting to leave the tops of my gaiters open and
so generating a lot of moisture, had chewed my tootsies
pretty thoroughly.
Instead of walking to Matlock next day, I walked into
Bakewell, caught a bus to Derby, caught a train to London,
went to a hotel, then off to Stanfords for maps and books, a
Chinese noodle place for noodles, the Odeon for a movie, and
the trip was just about over, wasn't it?