Trailing through Derbyshire

A man is standing on a slope surrounded by trees, he is breathing hard, his heart is pounding, as are his knees. It is Nick and he seems to be in a similar position to the last time we saw him, but this time he is in this position of his own, rather than gravitational - ummm- volition.
It was Jerry and Gail's wedding, I had decided to take an extra couple of days and do some cycling on the three Derbyshire cycling trails that had been converted from railway lines, "At least that way there won't be too much gradient." I thought. As you can see, I was wrong, this represents the top of the half-mile second gradient, the first one being longer - a mile. I enclose my timetable for the first day, while it can't sum up the sheer beauty of the trip, in fact I started texting people (how modern) to tell them to get their bottoms saddle-conditioned and come up to Derbyshire.

09-55 Left London
12-25 Arrive Cromford
12-35 Arrive High Peak Junction (only approach to start of Cycle and Horse trail
via footpath!)
12-45 Change in toilets
13-05 Leave after Hot Chocolate and chat to Warden, watch his face crumple as I
mention the School Holidays starting in two days
14.05 Arrive Middleton Top after 2.5 miles - it was uphill - lots!
14-40 Leave Middleton Top after failing to find slow puncture, but sporting new tube
15-25 Stop for view from World's biggest bench and Almond Flapjack
15-30 to 17-30 Feel Sick
16-45 Arrive Hartington Station
16-50 Cruise down hill to Hartington Village - delirious!
16-55 Still cruising - glum, as I consider return!
17-00 Arrive Hartington
17-10 Arrive Hartington YHA only 200 yds from village - it is uphill.

The High Peak Trail was firstly a quarry line and later took passengers, after the first accident, passengers were made to walk up the inclines (as was I), as they used to say in those days "Eh up! Tis health and safety gone cuckoo." At one point the Trail passes a large factory, instead of ,"We're a large factory so bog off!", it features a series of plaques, telling the passing trail users, "This is what we make" This is why we're here. This is how we used to do it. This is what we do now." a real engagement with the passing community.

As I stand at the YHA reception I pick up a flyer, I read and discover that tomorrow, TOMORROW, is the start of Beer and Music Festival weekend, featuring 16 real ales, "Ho Hum".
"Do you want to eat here tonight?"
I contemplate the hill that I've just crawled up and consider 'ensconced' a positive.
"Yes, it says here ask about our selection of local cask ales."
"We haven't got any, we don't stock it in quiet times." A small cloud no bigger than a man's hand appears on the horizon.
"But you've got a beer festival tomorrow."
"We've got bottles," he indicates the gift packs on the shelves behind, "Wincl, that's a local one it's good!"
"OK."
I move to my cupboard and, via the shower, to the bar.
"No cask ale."
"No."
"What bottles do you have?"
"Just this one, Jennings Cumberland."
"But at Reception ..."
"Yeah you can buy the gift packs from Reception."
I contemplate the size of my saddle bags.
"I'll have one of those then."
I sit outside in the cooling evening, chatting to an elderly couple who are up with the family for Husband's 80th, it is they who tell me that this was the first Youth Hostel in the World - ever. After they go to meet the Family, I delve into a crossword by Paul (a traditionalist) and revel in the fact that my cupboard (comfier than my Austrian cupboard) is away from the thirty schoolchildren who have arrived.

The evening meal, slow-cooked lamb on the menu, and ubiquitous lamb shank on the specials board. I start:

"Goat's Cheese Parfait."
"Aha..."
"Slow-cooked lamb."
"That's not on because of the lamb shank."
"Lamb shank."
"Aha..."
"A bottle of the house red." (Stupidity bigger than stomach).
"OK."

The parfait arrives, and is dispatched. The lamb shank arrives with heavily-buttered vegetables, it has come from the most spindle-shanked lamb in Derbyshire, the normal cone of meat being replaced by a narrow cylinder, this is probably a blessing in disguise, reducing the meat burden by at least half.

"Everything alright?"
"Uhh."
"Sweet?"

I eye the remaining red wine and the menu. At the bottom of the hill I have spotted the legend, "Cheese Factory", personally I prefer "Cheese Maker".

"Plate of Local Cheeses?"
"Ah ! Ooh! I'll check. ..........

"We don't have any local cheese, we have Red Leicester, Brie and Cheddar."
"I'll pass thanks."

The 80 year-old party are treated to single malts by Dad, I listen to the list, and perk at Talisker.

"Anything else?"
"I heard you have Talisker...."
"Ah! Ooh! I'll check. .............
"We don't have a full measure of Talisker, It's nearly full, we'll give it you for two thirds of the price..."

I bed early. Let us review: Local beer, local beer fest on the morrow - Off.
Local cheese, local cheese factory 200 yds away - Off.

9.00 pm Nick in the bedroom cupboard, after a bottle of non-local beer, non-local wine and a just ran-out measure of whisky. And what is he doing? He is revelling in his packing skills, feeling that the presence of his statins could have been a good thing for both the goat and the lamb (something about hanging here), and that the presence of his toothbrush would have been equally useful, and not left him wondering what he had been doing with his forefinger.

FRIDAY

I awoke with a catchy throat, the sort of catchy throat that suggested I had been entertaining the rest of the building with my spirited rendition of "Sounds one might hear in the Zoo during a full moon, concentrating on the Feline, Ursine and Porcine, "Why, who is here in this first cage. Oh hello it's Old Leo, King of the Jungle!"

I breakfasted, contemplated where my forefinger may have rested overnight while giving my teeth a vigorous rub, vacillated, changed into my cycling gear, and was on the road before 9.00am, the road went uphill, and came creakily to a bridge spanning the trail. One tussle with a gap in the wall and a footpath later, and I was back on the trail, cycling towards the end of the High Peak at an ever-diminishing speed, and then across to the next trail on the Pennine Bridleway, thankful for the fact that I was up and could only go down. And go down I did, down a slippery, steep path to the Wye Gorge and the start of the Monsal Trail. Once again, an old railway trail, this time featuring tunnels rather than inclines.

The Monsal Trail weaves down the Wye valley and would be beautiful if it wasn't for the bloody trees, all those leaves obscuring everything. The tunnels are fun, lit and full of soot from steam trains, it is a gentle downhill glide all the way to Bakewell, where I buy a toothbrush, and then arrive at my B&B early. I shower and watch a whole raft of antique programs (programs about antiques), some I can identify with. Mein Hostess recommends the Manners pub for dinner. At seven I pocket a pen and a crossword and set off, I order beer and food and settle in a corner just down from the other couple who are ensconced, pencil in hand, in their papers. I give them a cursory glance, "Oh well"

"Ruth!" for it is she, my paramour for ten years, the only woman who understood my every word, my curly carrot-top cutie.

She stares quizzically at me, "No sorry."

"Begins with N."

"N.....no."

"I went out with you for ten years."

"Oh Nick! Hi. You've got new glasses!"

All visions and fantasies of life with Ruth vanish in a cathartic puff of smoke.

I meet the Toy Bo.... the new friend, and after eating we have a wander to another pub or two, then I return to my bed and fall asleep.

SATURDAY - WEDDING DAY

Full Derbyshire breakfast (egg, bacon, sausage, black pudding, mushroom tomato toast and marmalade. Oh and cereal, fruit salad, compote and yoghurt, and coffee), a mooch about town and the Farmers Market, then a stroll by the river to Ashford in the Water, where I sit in the pub, nursing a half, and wrestling with Paul ( I had been somewhat taken aback upon discovering that "unpleasant person" translated as "prick") and awaiting arrivals, and here they come. Sarah and Dave drive past and then arrive at the table and eye my suitlessness.
"Didn't you know it was informal?" I quip, somewhat uselessly in fact, as at that moment Ettie appears, elegantly tailored and with hat. This means my suit has arrived so I change and move on to the church, to usher.
Steve and I are a bit fazed, when the car turns up at two not the two-thirty that we both think the wedding's at. Fortunately it just drops off the junior Pirons who are acting as bridesmaids and page. More guests, the church fills, and fills, and fills. The car returns at the right time and unloads the happy couple ( the bride in shoulderless dove grey with a boned bodice and bolero jacket, plus a necklace that greatly appealed to the magpie in me ) who have decided to process together, the stress of the moment causes some confusion, the bride and groom are followed by the bridesmaids dispensing rose petals, oh well, they'll do for the way out.

There is a wedding, people get married, small children hurl themselves from pews, and are taken outside to sob away their pain. There is a reception affording great views of the Wye Valley, a quick lesson on the Pierce Arrow 1924 given by Eddie, and a degree of exasperation at the bar.

"Some wine Sir?"
"Two glasses of red please."
The white-gloved waiter takes a bottle of red from the neat row in front of him, carefully undoes the cap of the bottle, and reverently pours two glasses of wine, each time using both hands. He does up the cap of the bottle, returns it to its neat row and then slides the glasses across the tablecoth.
"Thanks."
"Thank you, Sir. Some wine Madam?"
"Two glasses of red please."
The queue elongates by the minute.

I leave early, feeling that weddings are for couples.
The next day, I repair yet another puncture and head back to the railway line that will take me home. As I'm early I stop off in Matlock Bath to wait for the train, after 30 minutes I have done Matlock Bath. I have never seen so many motor bikes and so many fish and chip shops in one place, the heady mix of hot oil and hot oil pushes me down the road to wait for the train at Cromford - full circle.