The Night of the Thousand Spinning Hamsters (The Peak District County Tops walk.)

This piece was originally written for a well known outdoor gear company's website back in 2016. Time has passed, it is no longer on there and I've decided to re-write it. The title explains everything... 

The Holme Moss Mast.

March 2016. The long distance walking game was at its peak. Okay. I'd not gotten into cycling, swimming or climbing properly back then. Eat, sleep, think about the next daft walk, repeat... In the last four years I'd done 5 40+ mile walks (mostly alone) and my first 50 miler in 2014. The 51 mile Peak District County Tops walk was next on the agenda. Only nine people had done it. 10th? That was going to be me- and alone with no assistance too.

7pm, Crowden Campsite shop. It was raining heavily. Tried to explain to the warden that I didn't need accommodation, just some bog roll in case of any midnight evacuations. He looked genuinely concerned as I headed northwards into the clag over Black Chew Head and Black Hill. 

Despite the rain, the alien lights of the Holme Moss Mast made for simple navigation for the first couple of hours. The hills were deserted and it was just me. Happy days. Big fancy lights do not help with one thing though- tussocks. One minute you are blissed-out wandering alone at night, the next you're a soaking wet grumpy mess staggering through a knee deep nightmare. White Low folks. Don't fuck it up getting to the Woodhead Pass like I did. Fun was not had! 

Midnight on the Woodhead Pass is an unusual place for a midnight snack. Especially when obviously alone with a dimmed headtorch. All the boxes on the 'How to get yourself Kidnapped' list were ticked. Ten minutes and a flapjack later I'd still not been kidnapped, so off I shuffled south onto the vast Howden Moors before my luck ran out. 

Did I mention my headtorch was dimmed? 

It soon became apparent that the batteries were dying and of course my spares were at home. Very clever. By some sheer good fortune the clag cleared to a starry moonlit sky with the silhouettes of the hills clearly identifiable. Half of South Yorkshire was woken by my sigh of relief that night. 

Somewhere on the Howden Moors. 

Moonlit wandering, intense navigation, sleep deprivation kicking in, miles of bog and hill to cross before dawn. A very focused trance-like state was entered. Then as Outer Edge was passed, one of my favorite psytrance tracks ever (A Higher Pathway by Nebula Meltdown) began playing on loop in my head. Over and over again. Very trancy. 

And then the hamsters appeared. 

By Howden Edge my eyes, strained from several hours of dim light and trying to keep me on the correct bit of bog, had given in. One by one they materialised. Small brown hamsters spinning clockwise in their own little green hamster balls. Definitely real. They were cute and appeared quite content too. One became two became very quickly several thousand. Soon the hills were alive with small dizzy rodents. 

My own silent disco, sober (but very real) hallucinations, milky moonlit hills? Some of my friends into ecstatic dance would have loved this. Maybe. It was a bit soggy up there. I was as happy as a pig in shit, grinning and tripping my way across ladybower and over to the A57. Modern sober psychedelia? I'm converted. 

5:30am. Daybreak. Breaking of the hamsters. Un-breaking of my strained eyes. Sobering up. There was a solid 6 miles to Kinder which was easily done non stop. I needed breakfast. Sunrise over Stanage was beautiful, so was the birdsong and distant views. The long, long tunnel had been exited. I nestled down by Crowden Clough for breakfast at 7:30am after 28 miles of walking. Fresh socks, food and a 20 minute rest. Relief.

Sober me after 28 miles of walking
and 25 hours awake. A long day ahead...

It was a new day, the sun was shining and there was another 23 miles of walking still to do. The night had been unusual to say the least (and a lot of fun). All I knew was that- as fatigue took it's toll- the day was going to be interesting... 

The rest of the walk went by almost too smoothly. In fact, this was the most enjoyable of all the 5 walks I've done of 50-62 miles in length. Although it isn't uncommon to experience audio/ visual hallucinations on big days (due to lack of sleep and strain), this was the first time I'd really experienced it. So cool! Seven years and much more experience later, I warmly anticipate this aspect as much as watching the world go by and seeing sunrise and sunset when heading out on another big adventure. 

   

The Eastern Edges Walk Part 1- Hot Coffee and Seaweed.

 Back in the late summer I walked the full length of The Peak District's Eastern Edges. Setting off after work I walked alone for 19 hours and 45 miles through the night and following day. The idea was simple. Several months earlier I'd looked at a map and that continuous line of hills, moors and edges stretching from the Woodhead Pass to Ambergate stood out clearly. It seemed such a wonderfully obvious route across the landscape to walk, almost guaranteed to give an interesting day out. With a busy summer ahead I put it to the back of my mind until there was a free weekend to do it.  
 
  Fast forward to 6th September. I finished work at Foothills and kindly got a lift off my boss to the Woodhead Pass at 7pm. A brief thanks and goodbye then off I went, over the road and into the late evening sun.

The Woodhead Pass at the start of the walk. A long way from
here to Ambergate...

  A strong sense of numbness quickly overcame me on the initial ascent over Round Hill and onto the Howden Moors. The noise of the traffic soon receded as the tranquility of the moors took over. You always get this numbing sensation at the start of long walks as the mind is overwhelmed with what lays ahead. I smiled and plodded onward, thinking of nothing but getting onto the watershed from where the walk would properly begin.

  After half an hour I gained the boggy watershed as Bleaklow and the Eastern Edges came into view. A perfect spot for a brief pause. An aura of peace pervaded these vast hills glowing silently in the fading light. Thoughts flickered briefly to Ambergate 43 miles distant. So far. Another day. Pushing it to the back of the mind, another more pressing thought quickly took over- covering as much ground as possible before nightfall.


Late evening light over Bleaklow

  Onward I raced along the never ending boggy vastness of the Howden Moors, past the Hoar Stones, Outer Edge, Margery Hill to Howden Edge. Any initial tiredness or hunger was ignored. There was no time to think or settle into a nice pace like other long walks. Getting caught in the dark on these moors would slow progress down considerably and be bad for morale. Just go fast, read the landscape and keep walking.

  Nightfall soon arrived arrived on Howden Edge at 9:30 in time for a quick pause on the summit of this, the highest hill on the Eastern Edges. A brief munch on some haribo and a gaze into the dark Upper Derwent Valley. Then off again over the rough pathless moorland of Featherbed Moss over to Cartledge Top. Not bothering with the map or compass, the silhouette of Cartledge Top was identified and aimed for. In my haste, concentration was lost, the land didn't match up to how it should and I found myself stumbling into Crook Clough. After sweaty slog out of the clough and realigning myself with the outline of Back Tor, Cartledge Top was eventually reached in quite an irritated mood.

  Feeling comfortable in the hills is all about understanding the landscape, not fighting against it. If you work with the land and weather, you find yourself more in tune with it and life is easier and a more enriching experience. In getting to Cartledge Top I'd been sharply reminded of this. All along that dull trudge along the flagged path to Back Tor it was my only thought. I vowed not to cock up again.

  Now coffee just isn't my thing, but upon reaching Back Tor at 22:45 and surprising three lads out bivvying, it was rude to say no to their offer. After the intensity of crossing the Howden Moors, having 30 minutes chat about hills, plans (they thought I was daft) and bivvying over a brew was a heartwarming and unexpected surprise. In some situations you learn to like stuff you'd normally never touch. Lads-if you are reading this- thanks for the brew on that windy night on Back Tor- it was really appreciated!

  Buoyed by the coffee and conversation, I left the lads to their bivvy and set off alone, back into the night. The next 9 miles to Stanage South were walked non-stop. My heart was set on seeing sunrise from Birchin Edge and I needed to get a move on. Walking through the night is an incredibly isolating experience and you feel very detached from the world. I found myself in a little bubble, utterly absorbed in just plodding along over Derwent and Stanage Edge, so removed from the shimmering lights of Sheffield and the Hope Valley. Thoughts occasionally turned to my friends and what they'd be doing right now- probably out drinking, partying or chilling around a fire- yet quickly faded away. Unlike on previous long-distance night walks* there was a strange lack of loneliness, instead just a deep sense of purpose and contentment.

2am. Sheltering from the rain at Stanage South and trying
to stay awake. 

  By Stanage South at 2:00 two things happened. It began to rain, and I began to feel sleepy. Sit for a bit and eat haribo, yawn, then get going along Burbage Edge to the Fox House Inn. 3am in the rain is not the usual time to go walking. There is an odd sense that you shouldn't be out at that time. The boy-racer by Burbage Bridge blaring his horn at me made that all very apparent. The isolation hit hard.

  4am. I arrived at the welcome refuge of the bus shelter by the Fox House Inn after having been awake for 22 hours. By now my body was on sleep mode and just wanted bed. Staying awake for two days is easy. You have just got to get through the night until your circadian rhythms kick in and keep you awake until the next sunset. It is getting through the hours from midnight to sunrise which is hard. Those 30 mins sat in that lonely rainy bus stop with my eyes constantly drooping were a fight against sleep, forcing myself to stay awake at all costs and not curl up on the bench. Breathe deeply, keep the eyes open and just stay awake.  

5:01am, White Edge Moor.  Not much to see aside from
the odd glimpse of the moon and lots of rain.

  After 30 minutes a bleary eyed creature dragged itself out into the rain, along deserted roads and onto White Edge. Something strange happened here and I became convinced the heather around the trigpoint on White Edge smelt of seaweed. It smelt exactly like the stuff, yet I was 80 miles inland. Enjoying this weird sensation, 5 minutes was spent probably looking very peculiar, crawling in the heather at 5:30am smelling the seaweed...

  Much to my joy, is was gradually becoming daylight as the overnight rain slowly eased. The miles over to Curbar Gap and Birchin Edge went by an a very peaceful and euphoric mood. It felt like coming out of a long, dark and intense tunnel that stretched from the Woodhead Pass and had now deposited me out in the sun many miles to the south. Having made it through the night, it was a pleasure just to relax, slow down a bit and soak up that early morning light.

6:30am, looking back north over to White Edge from
Birchin Edge. Breakfast with a view!

  Finally, after 26 miles and just over 11 hours of walking I reached Birchin Edge at 6:21am just in time see the sunrise over Leash Fen. Everything was a slightly damp hazy blur of bright purple, green and grey. A fresh pair of socks. A comfy seat on the gritstone edge. A breakfast of peanuts, haribo and bananas. Having walked non-stop through the night, now I was utterly content. Nothing more was needed. It was a perfect moment.

  I had half an hour of blissed-out chill, rest and food before standing up and getting back on with the long journey south. Most of the next 19 miles to Ambergate was unknown to me. Whatever happened, it was going to be an interesting day ahead...

 *My first experience of this was on what became known as the Chorizo Sunrise walk (see post from September 2014) .
   

Chilling above the clouds- Temprature inversions in the Peak District

Hello folks.

  Temperature inversion are cool. No matter how old you are, there is always a childish delight about standing above the clouds whilst everyone is sat in the drizzle below. On top of that,they just look beautiful. To stand on one of many islands of land poking out above a silver sea of drifting cloud under a bright shining sun and soaking up that silent, ethereal ambiance is a moment never forgotten.

  For those of us living in/ by the Peak District, our beautiful land unfortunately isn't the best place for witnessing inversions. As a rule our hills just aren't high enough to produce views similar to those you see of snow-capped Scottish peaks poking out above the cloud. Yet during the autumn and winter we regularly get fog filled valleys with the high moors rising above, making a fine background to a day pottering about. With a bit of luck and knowledge you can go out and see some beautiful scenes.

 With this theme, here are a selection of photos and musings about days of sunshine and inversions in the Peak District taken over the last 7 years or so.

  Oct 2015- Lose Hill rising above the early morning fog. As a rule, the best time to see inversions is around sunrise on a cold clear morning during the autumn and winter. Very rarely do you see them well in the higher areas such as the Upper Derwent and Kinder and Bleaklow as the cloud always tend to sink down the valleys very quickly. Instead, the best places to go to are the mid level hills such as Mam Tor and Lose Hill in the Hope Valley, or the Eastern Edges from Stanage South to Baslow Edge which retain it much better. Quite frequently on such mornings the Derwent and Hope valleys fill with a river of cloud like a ghostly glacier, sometimes lingering well into the afternoon. You'll be rewarded well!

  Oct 2015- Early morning fog over the Hope Valley. The classic inversion in the Peak District seen at its best. That cliched image adorning every postcard and calendar of the area- of Lose Hill poking out of a mist covered Hope Valley from Mam Tor- is well worth seeking out. Get a calm, cool autumnal morning and see the sun rise out of the cloud, bathing Mam Tor's cliffs in a golden light. Its the sort of thing that leaves you grinning from ear to ear all the way until sunset.

  Dec 2010- Winter sunshine above the cloud on Mam Tor. One of those winter afternoons you never forget. A few hours doing the easy winter grade 1's and 2's on Mam Tor, gleefully avoiding the crowds in the gully, nicely wrapped off with a chill above the clouds among the skiers and families sledging.

  Nov 2014- Autumn bliss on Kinder Scout's western edges. The perfect reward after a very drunken conversation with my friend Kier that led to a soaking wet (but great fun) climb up the Kinder Downfall a week later. Usually during in inversions the cloud tends to rise and flow over the western edges of Kinder, with the more eastern parts of the plateau better for seeing them (such as around Blackden Clough or Grindsbrook. Yet on this occasion just a small section of the western edge around Sandy Hays remained cloud free, giving spectacular views.

  Feb 2010- a classic inversion over Grindsbrook, Kinder Scout. One of those rare days you dream of experiencing. In my 138 visits to Kinder (with 84 to the summit), only once have I found conditions like this. After a foggy morning the grey ceiling gradually got lighter and lighter until eventually the cloud rolled back and floated on the edges of the plateau. Suddenly a new world was revealed; bright warm sunshine with the plateau's slopes falling away to an expanse of cloud stretching across the entirety of Derbyshire. Only Kinder and Bleaklow poked out of it. I sat about fairly delighted about it, then spent several hours pottering about until sunset taking it all in. Some days you just don't forget.

  October 2008- A river of cloud over the Derwent Valley from Higgar Tor. The Eastern Edges from Stanage South to Baslow Edge are by far the best places in the area for seeing cool scenes like this. Normally the fog tends to sink down the valley leaving the Upper Derwent around Back Tor and Bleaklow clear, whilst it can last all day lower down.

  2nd November 2015- a Broken Spectre from Fulwood Lane. Broken Spectres are pretty awesome but require a bit of luck to see (you need the sun behind you and the cloud directly in front or below). Still, waving at your shadow on a cloud with  nice halo has a childish delight to it... Here I'd spent an hour on Rud Hill watching a bank of fog drift over Sheffield from the SE. I waited and as soon as it reached the head of the Porter Valley, seized the opportunity and ran back down to get this photo.

  2nd November 2015- living the autumn dream on Rud Hill.

  2nd November 2015- Afternoon fog blanketing Sheffield from Rud Hill. Some days you really do just get lucky. I'd spent two hours watching as this fog drifted over Sheffield yet failed to rise over the Pennines above, instead lapping on the edges of the Porter and Sheaf valleys. Two idle hours just sitting there in the warm sun gazing out over the cloud. It was a day taken off work well spent. Sort of sums up a lot about getting out on the hill really- the more you get out, the more cool places you find and the more amazing moments like this you experience.

  Right, that's all for this week. Coming up next Wednesday: a story about a very long sleep-deprived walk down the Eastern Edges involving being convinced White Edge smelt of seaweed and weirding out people on Crich Stand,..

  Happy wandering!

Animals (poem)

Animals.

I wanna be an iguana, I want to be a cat
I want to be cute and furry, and get fed until I'm fat
I want to be a seagull, I want to be able to fly
I want to steal people's food, and make exasperated parents cry

I'd love to dance with dolphins, I'd love to swim in the sea
I'd love to live in the great blue beyond, although seafood just isn't for me

If I'm as horny as a bull, I'd like to be as simple as a sheep
I'd like to roll around in hay, and be a pet that posh people keep
It would be cool to be a jellyfish, and live without a brain
It would be chilling to be toad, and love it when it rains

And if being Turritopsis Dohrnii doesn't sound very clever
Realise that you'd be immortal, and be able to live forever
But now in the present, we're stuck with humanity
So just rejoice being homo sapiens, and the wonders of being you and me.

*Turritopsis Dohrnii is a jellyfish which has some form of immortality.

A climb up the Kinder Downfall.

Hello folks!

  A few weeks ago I a posted a poem about a nosy up that famously impressive trickle of water known as the Kinder Downfall. Finally, here is a little account of the day- complete with some photos of a stunning inversion we witnessed too.

  All photos in this post belong to- and were taken by- Kier Teasdale.

  Don't all the best ideas often originate around a table whilst supping your third or fourth pint of ale? One sunday afternoon a slightly drunken conversation turned to ideas for interesting adventures in The Peak District. Various things were suggested until the idea of 'lets climb up the biggest waterfall in the area, in late November, whilst it will be in spate' was brought up. Ah-ha. Two lads, two slightly crazy grins spreading over their faces and a plan for something 'a little bit different' forming in their minds. It had to be done.

  A week later we found ourselves driving out from a dank, drizzly Hunter's Bar over to Hayfield (stopping for a delicious bacon and egg sandwich from the village shop in Castleton- highly recommended), where fortunately the cloud seemed to be breaking up with nice sunny spells.

  Half an hour later we followed the Kinder Road to the Kinder Reservoir alongside the River Kinder and were headed to the Kinder Downfall high on Kinder Scout. Despite being unsure of which fell we were climbing, both of us couldn't help but be spellbound by the beauty of the Kinder Reservoir under the crisp winter light, with the Downfall ominously tucked away high on the horizon.

  10 minutes after that we began the half-hour 300m climb up the Sandy Hays Ridge onto the plateau. Regardless of the strong winds we found it a pleasure every step of the way- grand, impressive scenery, easy walking and a lovely narrow ridge for the last 100m.

  On the plateau rim at Sandy Hays something spectacular happened. The cloud capping Kinder's plateau began to sink into the valley below, giving a spectacular temperature inversion.

Cloud sinking down into the Kinder Valley from Sandy Hays. We sat for a long while watching it flow like a silent, ethereal river.

Due to a chance mix of wind direction and topography, Sandy Hays remained free of cloud whilst everywhere else in Peakland was either in- or under- the cloud. Some days you just get lucky. Some days you don't forget!

Another photo of the inversion- looking towards Kinder Low. After a good chill in the warm sunshine we made our way to the Downfall, dropping back into the cloud...

 Back into the cloud we went as the Downfall got closer with the water thundering ominously invisible in the mist. After a rough descent into the ravine we finally reached the climb...

The Kinder Downfall in all it's watery, gritty glory. 18m of slippy gritstone, crevasses, scooped out caves and lots of pouring relentless cold water. The route climbs up the right-hand side to the distinct pale block in the middle of the fall. Belay here, then traverse up and left through the main flow to the top left-hand corner. For scale, the pale block in the middle is about 6ft high.

Getting psyched! It was here I told Kier I'd not tied onto a rope since May, belayed for over 4 years and never led a multi-pitch route before. Fortunately confident enough for this not be a problem, Kier happily set off into the endless shower. There was a nice mix of daftness, anticipation and awe whilst gearing up- whilst to top it off the cloud began to thin too.

Kier's view from the top back down to the belay ledge. No photos were taken from the climb as it was just too wet! As soon as chilly hand touched cold rock we were wet, and stayed that way for 45 minutes. Guess that's what happens when you climb up waterfalls. Kier led the first pitch easily to a grand belay right in the middle and I slowly followed, trying to remember how to climb. After a bit off fuss sorting out the stance, Kier led off under the deluge to the top whilst being papped by curious photographers eager to see us get a soaking. Trying to belay whilst absorbing the awesome situation, grand scenery and trying not to slip was tricky...

Happy Kier at the top of the climb. The first pitch was conventional- if wet- climbing on good holds, cracks and ledges. The second pitch was a soaking wet fight, thrutching up a series of deep crevasses and crawling onto ledges whilst feeling like you were drowning and trying not to slide off. Well, well worth it! 

Happy me at the top of the Kinder Downfall!

  During this trip we learnt several lessons: 1: Paramo is simply amazing and will keep you desert-dry as well as breathe 10,000x better than gore-tex. Just wash it in Nikwax tech-wash every week and reproof regularly and it'll last a lifetime, even if you get it battered having fun! 2: Cheap Craghoppers overtrousers, though less than 1/2 the price of gore-tex ones will also keep you dry under a waterfall for 45 minutes. You'll be a bit sweatier though... 3: No matter how good your waterproofs, they can't keep water from coming down your arms or neck. You get used to this.... 4: There are few finer ways to celebrate a climb than drying off in the warm sun above a sea of cloud.

Somewhere on Kinder around the end of November, two slightly damp lads poked their heads up onto the plateau, dried off, grinned like idiots and munched on cheap chocolate. Happy at realising their little plan they slowly headed back down towards Hayfield and then Sheffield. However, two things took priority- the need to soak up yet more perfect sunny views above a dazzling expanse of cloud floating beneath them, and a well earnt pint in the nearest pub... 

Happy Wandering!

PS: Despite having been everywhere from Chrome Hill to Tideswell and Bleaklow over the last 6 weeks, I'm aware that recently there has been a lot of coverage of Kinder Scout. Over the upcoming month that will change- expect bits and bobs about everywhere else in Peakland, including some of the more unusual areas, along with, musings, guides and photos...

The Derwent Watershed and back home: Part 3- Chorizo Sunrise Dreams.

  3am. A human-shaped creature clad in paramo and gore-tex lifts itself off its damp rocky seat and slowly puts one leather-coated foot in front of the other. The creature groans in pain- it has been doing this simple action now for 16 hours and 37 miles (with stops) and still has far to go. Thinking of home, it sets off up the A57, heading for the sunrise.

  Onward. Up the A57 to rejoin the Derwent Watershed walk at Moscar and onto Stanage. Cars pass by, their lights disappearing into the night, their drivers probably quite perplexed at seeing someone out walking at this this time. I wonder where they are headed, recalling memories of setting off on holiday at these early hours. Detached. So close, yet we are in two different universes.

  Finally I leave the road and take my first steps onto Stanage Edge. A brief pause to look back on the brooding silhouettes of Back Tor and the Howden Moors, then nodding with respect and gratitude to them giving me a smooth passage. They are now behind me, a big weight lifted off my shoulders as a slow, peaceful crossing of Stanage commenced.

  Stanage Edge was a very transitional experience, almost like coming out of a tunnel. For the first time since Kinder I passed close by to civilization, gazing down at the sleeping villages in the Hope Valley whilst the landscape gradually changed from the higher, wilder moors to the north to the friendly and gentle edges to the south. Thoughts changed from seemingly perpetual walking to thinking about the finish. Stumbling wearily along, a surge of energy came suudenly with the realisation that the walk was going to be done in 24 hours. Homeward bound!

Shortly after first light at Stanage South

  During all this there was an acute awareness of the distinct smell of chorizo around High Neb. Even more noticeable than the chicken noodle soup on Derwent Edge, I became utterly convinced I could smell it. The weird hallucination got so strong I even paused to listen for signs of people bivvying nearby- it'd be cool to drop in, give them a fright then have a chill, chat and bite to eat before heading on. Yet I only ever heard the sound of sheep and the wind- both unlikely to be indulging in any spicy sausage delights. Disappointed and quite craving chorizo and a cold glass of coke, I headed along the edge to Stanage South,

  And then it happened. I glimpsed it. That first dawning light of a new day shimming serenely over the misty skies of Sheffield. I lay down to rest at Stanage South and smiled. After the longest night of my life I could finally relax. Home was now only 13 miles away, the end tantalisingly close. Put on a fresh pair of socks (good old Smartwool socks- 41 miles and no blisters!), guzzle lucozade, wolf down some cereal bars and gaze out over the ethereal veils of mist over Ringinglow Bog. Soak up the moment then get up and get going. I had a sunrise to watch from Higgar Tor.

  There are sunrises and there are those leave you utterly spellbound by their beauty. The one from Higgar Tor was one of the latter. After weirding out an array of serious-looking photographers with strange stories and overly exited chat (sorry if I was a pain, but I'd not spoke to anyone for 15 hours), I graciously removed myself and headed to the summit. Gradually that life-giving nuclear furnace rose above Burbage Moor and bathed the hills in a serene golden light with cotton-wool mist sinking below. Warmth. Energy. Light. All flooded though me as a new day lit up all around, The colours seemed almost surreal in their intensity and beauty. A grin spred from ear to ear, my eyes awoke. It was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen.

Sunrise  

  A powerful change occurred with the sunrise as a sense of euphoria consumed me. The pain and aches diminished, the tiredness faded, my mind awoke. I felt amazing,almost giddy. Suddenly I could bound around, down to Carl Wark and along to Over Owler Tor where I had the magic of seeing my first ever broken spectre. Thoughts drifted to staying out all day and going even further. I could do anything now. I was unstoppable. Those 90 minutes made every second of hardship pale into insignificance- I felt amply rewarded. It was sublime.

  Sanity returned soon enough as I headed through Longshawe to the Fox House Inn and over the Houndkirk Road to Ringinglow. Common to all big walks, you'll experience a wave of positivety when the finish suddenly becomes within reach- this nearly always sharply fades soon after when you realise there's still a good couple of hours to go before that momentous final mile or so. As was the case for this walk, that expected low feeling was acutely intense. The hurt came back, my pace slowed down and a strong, almost desperate urge to get home kicked in. I found myself too tired to distract my mind away from the pain in my legs and feet. Back hunched, face screwed up, legs dragging along slowly counting every step, fighting the need to sit down. I probably wouldn't have gotten back up off the Houndkirk Road if I had. It was a bedraggled creature crossing it at 8am that morning.

  Eventually Ringinglow came into view just before 9am and once again, everything changed. At long last I was on the homestretch. Sit down for one last time, guzzle yet more lucozade, wolf down yet more harribo and cereal bars, then get up and don't sit down until home. Simple. With a satisfied smile I descended into Porter Clough and down into my home valley.

  A strange creature walked down the Porter Valley on the morning of sunday 24th August. Bleary-eyed, dirty and probably quite pungent, this creature had been on the go now for 22 hours and 50 miles. It had walked down this valley at the end of many epic long days before in it's life, each one gradually bigger and more epic than the last. This time would be the final time it would experience that feeling. This was as far as it could ever push it. 

  The creature walked slowly down, past Forge Dam and through Bingham and Endcliffe Parks to Hunter's Bar. It appeared to be an a trance, in a state of utmost euphoria, grinning insanely from ear to ear out of sheer joy for what it had done and was soon going to finish. It hadn't been easy, it had been hard, but it had been incredible and unforgettable. Every second it now savored, every footstep one more than it had ever taken before in its life. People passed by it and moved on quickly- possibly because of the smell.

10:12am, Hunter's Bar. Happy days!

  Finally, at long, long last I arrived at Hunter's Bar. Looking like a bit of a nutcase whooping with joy and relief, then bewildering a bewildered man by getting him to take my photo, I gleefully took those last few steps home. Suddenly it was all gone, it was over. Just very deep satisfaction as I closed my door and lay down on my bed.

  23 hours 30 mins and 54 miles, 4 months of dreaming and far, far too much harribo and lucozade over the finest hills anywhere. The most interesting walk I've ever been fortunate enough to experience was finally over.


Epilogue

  Sunday was spent being extremely giddy and ecstatic about the previous 24 hours. I chilled out, eat the best Bilash chicken madras of my life and got laughed at by some special-brew guzzling alcoholics for looking wasted on the way to tesco (I could hardly walk). The next three weeks were spent talking constantly about the walk to anything with ears, regardless of whether they could understand or not. Some chorizo was finally eaten too. Amazingly I only got one blister and after a few days of aching by wednesday all was back to normal. Now, time for a few months of more relaxed wandering and pottering about until the next big adventure reveals itself.

Search and you will find, drift and you will discover!
 

The Derwent Watershed and back home in a day: Part 2- Lets go for a big long walk!

  This is the second of a 3 part account about a solo wander around the Derwent Watershed and back home to Sheffield in a day. I covered 54 miles in 23.5 hours over the most beautiful and grand hills and moors in Peakland. A prologue is 2 posts before this and all being well the final part will be up next week.

  10:42am, stepping off the 272 bus at the Bamford turnaround. Call in at the garage and pick up a couple of flapjacks and pretzel pieces then silently begin the delightful ascent of Win Hill Pike under the late summer sun. My mind is numb, 4 months waiting and finally it is happening. All I can think about is getting up that hill.

  A slow, sweaty ascent feeling tired and dehydrated lands me on Win Hill Pike's rocky summit. Though my bag is heavy laden with many liters of lucozade, water and food, its contents will keep me going for the next 24 hours and for that I am grateful. The only niggle is my lack of walking poles- somehow I was unable to find mine at home. Fortunately, by the foot of Lose Hill I'd picked up two perfectly sized sticks which did the job admirably- they would be my companions for the entire walk. Nature's finest!

  The first 9.5 miles to Lord's Seat were difficult and set the scene for the walk. On big hill days your mind goes through many stages- the intial numbness followed by a sense of insignificance compared to the day ahead, then you settle into the day and a euphoric feeling ensues. From here untill towards the end you experience highs and lows that can normally be predicted well in advance. The key to success is always predicting, preparing, accepting and dealing with these emotions. It is rarely a physical game.

  What struck me off guard was just how powerful these stages and emotions were on this walk. I've never experienced anything quite like it. Everything was magnified 10x and took me most of the day to understand and prepare for. By Mam Tor I was worried- irritatingly stubbing my toes and unable to settle into a pace, feeling utterly insignificant and dwarfed by the task (and the looming night) ahead. All I could do was head onward, focusing and being utterly bent on success.

  Things picked up on the crossing to Kinder over Brown Knoll. The peat was wet but not too soft making for speedy progress, my pace settled and morale was boosted by some bewildered students giving me the rest of their harribo. I didn't dare tell them I'd enough sugar to give myself diabetes, but the offer and words of encouragement were much appreciated. If you are reading this- thanks!

  Mid afternoon and Kinder came and went without a fuss, my mind happily slipping into that meditative feeling that makes long-distance walking such a joy. 73rd visit to Kinder's summit? No desire to celebrate when your thoughts are a hazy bubble about the route beyond. Still, I'd hardly stopped by then so a good half hour to rest the feet and eat pasta by the downfall was much needed. Then, onwards again into the late afternoon/ early evening. By 16:30 at Ashop Head I passed by a group of walkers descending in the golden light- they would be the last people I'd speak to (or see) for over 12 hours.

Early evening at Bleaklow Head

  Big days out are all about 'tactics'. Planning of diet, timings, pace ect. My plan was to stop little and reach Swains Head by nightfall, getting the deeply emotive (for me) and navigationaly tough ground of Bleaklow well behind me.After that, I'd slow down on the simpler (if still rough) Howden Moors, switch from juice, pasta and flapjack to lucozade, fruit and nuts. Load up on carbs and sugar, then onto mostly sugar and lighter food for speed and concentration. It worked. I became consumed and numbed by the ensuing loneliness, crossing over Mill Hill, the Snake Pass, Higher Shelf Stones and over to Bleaklow Stones. It was a wonderful feeling, akin to gently adjusting to a cold sea as you slowly wade in. I was going well. Nothing else mattered anymore apart from simply walking. Bills, jobs to do, thoughts about friends and life in general, all faded into insignificance. I was utterly content and absorbed by the landscape. Freedom!

So many feelings summed up!

  Bleaklow Stones is a major landmark on the Derwent Watershed walk. Roughly halfway through having crossed Kinder and Bleaklow, you descend very rough moorland to Swains Head and leave Bleaklow for the Eastern Edges. The going is still hard for many miles to come but once the Howden Moors are over life gets easier. All you have between you and success is the Howden Moors. For me it was a turning point too. I'd rested properly for the first time in 3.5 hours and watched in amazement as Bleaklow's shadow drifted over its lower flanks under a setting sun, then set off in a race against darkness trying to reach Swain's Head. It was glorious.

  All my long- held foreboding about 'the night shift' disappeared, I was overcome by an urgency to cover as much ground as possible before it became pitch black, regardless of having 25 miles underfoot. This transformed itself into a bizarre sensation of peace and relaxation, I just a small dot on the vast plains above the infant River Derwent dissolving into the fading light.

The shadow of  Bleaklow over Ridgewalk Moor

  Quickly a routine established itself: scan the pattern of erosion and make out the 'path' winding its way through the bogs, pick a way through it, strain the eyes trying not to fall into any holes or deep bogs, talk loudly about remembering to focus, walk onward to the next little section, repeat. This routine would become my world for the next 3 hours over Margery Hill and High Stones to Back Tor, a beautifully simple world distilled to a few basic thoughts. This is exactly what long- distance walking is all about and it was great.

  Outer Edge was reached by an exhausted and weary mess at 22:00ish. It was pitch black now and I was tired, Stop, change batteries, eat some food, have a drink then push on into the dark. Perhaps not enough time to stop and admire these grandest of Peakland's moors, what with being reduced to just a little bubble of light and focus on not falling into a bog. Maybe that was the point- that this wasn't an exercise in being lost in the beauty of it all and chilling out watching the world go by. This was different, instead being about understanding and working with the landscape to move though it, constantly on the go. A different form of appreciation maybe.

  Regarding understanding the landscape, the crossing from High Stones to Cartledge Top over Middle Moss is a prime example and one which became a highlight of the trip. After continuing in my little routine to High Stones, the only genuine pathless bit of the walk began. There was no need to use a compass though- I much prefer to use a technique called 'dead reckoning' which is much quicker when the mist isn't down. The idea behind it is to identify a landmark roughly in a straight line between you and your destination- or just your destination if lucky enough. You then head towards it, aligning yourself with other features along the way- such as streams or hillsides- to keep your bearing. If done properly you can be pretty accurate, save time and learn the landscape better too. This worked for me, sort of.

  I identified and aimed at the silhouette of Cartledge Top and set off, but became far too engrossed in not falling into a peat bog and missed the path beyond. Knowing I had no reception, no-one knew where I was and that the road was a good hour's plod made watching my feet a priority. Realising I'd gone far too much south, by identifying Back Tor and aiming slightly south, plodding through more heather the path was soon met. Brilliant!

  I was frazzled. The intensity of the last two hours walking by trying not to get lost or fall into a bog and having walked over 30 miles now was beginning to be noticeable. A stop was needed. Yet I like to rest at important landmarks on big walks and Back Tor was only 40 minutes away. Those were long, utterly draining minutes, each step becoming more and more of an effort, every minute just wishing the sun would come up, every patch of heather a comfy bed that wasn't to be. This was when the walk began to bite.

  Relief flooded a drained mess on Back Tor at 12:45 on sunday morning, who lay down and devoured fruit and nut mix down with feverish intent. Feet hurt, eyes hurt, belly was hungry. 15 minutes later the feet, eyes and belly were less hurt and hungry. Deep down though all I could think about was how much I was looking forward to sunrise. I craved it. Still, sunrise wouldn't come any sooner so get up, deal with the aches and get going. I'd thought about where I wished to watch it from and decided that Stanage South would be ideal. Motivation. It worked. Onward!

3am, Cuttthroat Bridge. Wasted. More
walking needed then. Much more
walking needed!

  Now came the unexpected crux of the entire walk. Derwent Edge, usually very easy going- even on the watershed walk- but I struggled. On big days out you always experience a tough bit where all you want to do is sit down and the walk to end- you have to push on through until things inevitably get easier. Yet the intensity of it was nothing like I'd been through before. A still distant sunrise, the urge and then refusal to curl up on a soft piece of heather and snooze, the legs and feet just hurting and hurting, my mind increasingly worn out. The pace slowed down lots with the occasional stop and I became totally convinced I could smell chicken noodle soup. Bizarre eh. Get up and keep going. The minutes dragged and dragged. Yet I kept going. I had to. Keep reminding yourself why your doing this and why your going to succeed. Onward. Those painful two hours on Derwent Edge were the hardest two hours walking I've ever done.

  Somehow, eventually, thankfully, at 3am Cuttroat Bridge and the A57 was reached. I was blissfully relieved and happy. Sit down to guzzle lucozade, eat food, rest and relax, Those 5 hours from Bleaklow Stones had been some of the most intense, absorbing and simply amazing wandering I'd ever experienced. It had been difficult, it had been painful, but it had been incredible and unforgettable all the same. The hard bit was over. Only Stanage, the Burbage Valley and the Porter Valley lay ahead- easy ground. First light would be in 90 minutes. A change of socks would be then too. And I still had another pack of harribo and bottle of lucozade as well.

  The long walk back home was within reach. .