A Dragon’s Back and a Right to Roam
An away trip to the Peak District, to walk the iconic profile of Chrome Hill, provokes a rumination on the right to roam, the mass trespass of 1932, and the fact I owe my life to the Ramblers’ Association. En route, we get spooked by the Quiet Woman in Earl Sterndale and have a chance encounter with the Sundance Kid.
Revolution
In 1917, the tyranny of the Russian Tsar had fallen to the hammer and sickle in a matter of months, but in Britain, a slow-burn revolution smouldered. Every inch as rooted in class conflict and social injustice, its aims were humbler: they demanded not the overthrow of the ruling elite, but the right to roam; the right for open access to land that had once been common, but for the last four centuries had been systematically enclosed—taken from the many and given to the few. Enclosure had swept away the old feudal system, where land was worked collectively for subsistence, and created a nation of landless poor and landed gentry. The land itself had become a commodity to be owned and worked for profit. Protest songs didn’t start with Bob Dylan—in England, a sixteenth century bard penned this:
Hang the man and flog the woman
That steals the goose from off the common
But leave the greater felon loose
That steals the common from the goose.
With industrialisation, the massed ranks of rural poor flocked to the cities to work the mills, mines and factories of the industrial north. New hardships, diseases and health problems awaited. By the beginning of the twentieth century the physical and spiritual benefits of the great outdoors were widely appreciated. In increasing numbers, men and women would escape the urban sprawl at weekends to seek out clean air and green space, and increasingly, they found their way blocked. England’s green and pleasant land had become a playground for the rich elite, populated with game and shooting lodges. Commoners were not welcome.
“We ramblers, after a hard week’s work, in smokey towns and cities, go out rambling for relaxation and fresh air. And we find the finest rambling country is closed to us … Our request, or demand, for access to all peaks and uncultivated moorland is nothing unreasonable”. So spoke Benny Rothman in his own defence at Derby Assizes. Twenty-one-year-old Benny was on trial for helping organise the mass trespass of 1932: on April 24th, over four hundred men and women left Sheffield and Manchester to walk together in protest over Kinder Scout, in what is now the Peak District. The land was owned by the Duke of Devonshire, and he deployed a band of keepers armed with clubs to forcibly deter the trespassers. A full-scale fight broke out, and the keepers were easily overwhelmed. But the judge’s sympathies lay with the landowner, and Benny was jailed, along with four of his friends.
The sentences caused outrage and fuelled popular support for the right to roam. In 1935, the Ramblers’ Association was formed to advocate for walkers’ rights at a national level and to promote the benefits of rambling to ordinary people. Their efforts eventually bore fruit: in 1951, the Peak District became England’s first National Park. It was known as the “lungs of England”. By the end of the decade, the Lake District, Snowdonia, Dartmoor, Pembrokeshire Coast, North York Moors, Yorkshire Dales, Exmoor, Northumberland and Brecon Beacons had all followed suit. It took until the year 2000, however, for the Countryside and Rights of Way Act to secure open access for the public to all uncultivated upland and downland.
Away Trip
This is on my mind for two reasons: I’m driving south on the M6 for a weekend’s walking in the Peak District with my friend Tim; and the other night, my mum mentioned that my granny and grandad met on a Ramblers’ Association walk in the Lake District. I never knew. A love of treading the Lakeland fells had evidently skipped a generation in our family, but now my mountain passion seems less like an aberration and more a resumption of an older family tradition. My granny came from the mining village of Astley, near Manchester. She was warm, outgoing, outspoken and would laugh easily and heartily. My grandad was a southerner—serious, reserved, shy and meticulous. They complimented each other perfectly, but they most likely would never have met had it not been for the Ramblers’ Association—so without the Ramblers’ Association, I wouldn’t be here.
Beyond the urban sprawl of Greater Manchester, I crawl through Glossop. Under an overcast sky in dimming light, it appears drab and austere. I give way to a pedestrian at a pelican crossing. He’s in his early twenties, shoulders hunched, belly spilling over his belt, lank, greasy hair, plastered thinly across a forehead that wears the perennial look of defeat; his T-shirt bears the moniker, “the Sundance Kid”.
As Glossop’s answer to Robert Redford recedes into the distance, something magic happens: the buildings stop, the road leads uphill past a sign for “Snake Pass”, and without warning, I’m launched out into the sublime sweep of lonely, windblown, wilderness that is the Dark Peak. I’ve made this journey many times, and the soaring rush of exhilaration that kicks in at this point never ever diminishes. I think of Benny Rothman and how hard he fought for the right to roam here.
From here on, the drive is pure joy. The stresses of the week evaporate as this dramatic landscape casts its spell. Eventually, beyond the mesmeric glint of the Ladybower reservoir, the bright lights of Sheffield appear. Soon after, I’m knocking on Tim’s door, which he opens in a pinny with a bottle of wine in hand. This is good news—he’s a great cook.
Over dinner and several glasses of wine, Tim rattles off suggestions for tomorrow’s adventures. Kinder Scout is mooted, but intriguingly, he also ponders going further afield, to the White Peak, to walk the Dragon’s Back.
I keep a careful eye on the time. Tim’s kitchen is built on a wrinkle in the space-time continuum. I’ve been caught out many times before: if you let the hands of his clock reach half past midnight, you’ll look up a couple of minutes later to find it’s half past three (which doesn’t make for the best start to a day out rambling). I sneak off to bed at twenty-nine minutes past twelve.
The Dragon’s Back
Over breakfast, the Dragon’s back idea wins out, and we set off for the Dove valley near Buxton. The Peak District is a single National Park but encapsulates two very different terrains. The northern part, which juts up against Sheffield, is the Dark Peak, a dramatic expanse of untamed moorland: savage, intimidating, unkempt, and in early spring, still looking every bit the desolate winter scrub. Huge swathes of earthen colour—bands of brown, yellow and rust—are punctuated by long escarpments and outcrops of gritstone, weathered into smooth, rounded, surreal-looking formations like piles of pebbles on a giant’s beach.
As we cross into Derbyshire and Staffordshire, the aspect changes character completely. We find ourselves amid gentle rolling hills and green pastoral valleys. This is the White Peak—the Dark Peak’s prettier, softer sibling. Yet as we crest the top of a hill and head towards Longnor, Tim directs my gaze right, to an astounding sight, quite out of keeping with its surroundings. It’s as if two colossal dinosaurs, hibernating beneath the valley floor, have awoken and thrust their arched backs up through the earth, their spines ridged with jagged plates; and due to some inscrutable ancient mystery, they have become fossilised in the process, their skins turned to grass, and their armour plate into limestone pinnacles.
These are the iconic profiles of Chrome Hill and Parkhouse Hill, known collectively as the Dragon’s Back. In 1997, writer Jeff Kent brought Chrome Hill to wider attention, when he discovered it boasts a double sunset. If viewed from Parkhouse Hill or Glutton Bridge, on or around the summer solstice, the sun appears to set, then re-emerges and sets again. In an ideal world, we’d have read Jeff’s book, and we’d be visiting on the summer solstice to observe the spectacle. As it is, we’re two months early and I won’t find out about the phenomenon until I browse Wikipedia, a few weeks later. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to get my boots on when we park in Longnor.
The long easy walk-in takes us to Hollinsclough, past its chapel, and down through fields to a stream, where the dampness of the grass sends me tumbling for an early mud bath. The going gets firmer as we gain height. After a prolonged winter, the recent rain and warm April sunshine lend a spring vitality to a day that might almost be summer, were the trees not still bereft of leaves.
We reach a brow and Chrome Hill rises before us in all its quirky, spiky magnificence. We sip coffee at its foot then start to scramble up between its craggy pinnacles, minding our step—wet limestone is nearly as slippery as wet grass.
At 1394 feet, Chrome Hill stops some way short of a mountain, but on character alone, it outranks grassy domes more than twice its height. The Hill has a mountain personality and a mountain’s power. The narrowness of its ridge emphasises the steepness of its sides, and the rolling pastures of the White Peak stretch out forever below.
On the summit, two men and a dog are gazing out over the expansive views. We’re all beaming with the sheer exuberance of the experience (especially the dog).
The descent is severe, and we worry how we’ll stay upright, but these south-east slopes have been sun-kissed for several hours, so the grass is dry and the going proves easy enough. At the bottom, the slimmer, sharper, lower ridge of Parkhouse Hill rises enticingly, but there’s no right of way shown on the map, and we’re unsure of its status. Later, we’ll learn that it has been classified as open access under the 2000 act, but it was long disputed, and I realise the right to roam is not just the story of Benny’s battle from a previous century, but still very much a living, burning, contentious issue.
Our route meanders beside meadows alive with bouncing lambs and grazing ewes. You can almost feel the surge of new life bursting from the ground, and to walk amongst it is an emotional tonic just as much as a physical one. We find a bench-like boulder beside a dusty country lane, under trees chirruping with bird song, and tuck into our grub. Tim’s local baker has supplied a pork pie of Brobdingnagian proportions, forged with a finesse that would embarrass Heston Blumenthal. Tim has also packed veritable house bricks of Yorkshire brack, smothered with butter to a depth that James Martin would readily endorse. After gorging greedily on this fine fare, Tim checks the map and starts to chuckle.
“Guess where we are”, he says.
“I’ve no idea”, I reply.
“We’re in Gluttondale”, he smirks.
The Quiet Woman
After a couple of miles, the lane leads into a village. Tim, who’s a couple of yards ahead, stops abruptly and looks up with purpose. I follow his lead and my eyes meet a pub sign that’s immediately disquieting. It takes a minute to work out why. The artwork is slightly garish, bearing the hallmark of Hammer House of Horror film poster from the 1970’s. The pub is called the Quiet Woman and bears the inscription, “soft words turneth away wrath”, beneath which is a crude painting of a woman, presumably the landlady; only, something is missing… Oh yes, it’s her head.
The sign seems to be implying that a woman should be seen and not heard, and the most effective means of achieving this is decapitation. The exterior of the building is dark-beamed, and the windows latticed. Their glass reflects the afternoon sun, rendering them utterly impenetrable. It makes the Slaughtered Lamb in American Werewolf look positively hospitable. Suddenly, eerily, it feels as if we’ve arrived in Royston Vasey. In actual fact, it’s Earl Sterndale, which, as names go, is even more intimidating.
The story behind the pub sign is every bit as dark as you would imagine. The original landlady was an incessant nag and gossip, known locally as Chattering Charteris. Her relentless mithering proved too much for her beleaguered husband, who cut off her head. Far from provoking outrage, his action won the wholehearted approval of the villagers who clubbed together to pay for her headstone.
Someone is waving at us from one of the tables on the beer terrace out front. It’s one of the guys from the summit of Chrome Hill. They seem to be enjoying themselves, but perhaps they haven’t seen the sign, and now they’re walking unknowingly into a terrible trap, like Edward Woodward in the Wicker Man. Or perhaps they’re locals, and they’re in on it. We smile wanly and hurry on in the faint hope that our gender might spare us from the village executioner.
A little further on, a woman leans over the fence of a paddock where two children and a dog are trying to corral some young lambs. She greets us warmly and we chat. It’s a delightful scene that quickly dispels the darker suspicions of moments ago. Well almost. What if it’s a buttering up exercise, a diversionary tactic to lull us into a false sense of security, while the men of the village sharpen the axes or weave the last canes into the body of the wicker man?
We take our leave and walk on briskly past the arresting pyramidal hill of High Wheeldon, through a quagmire of mud and cow muck, and back to the safer environs of Longnor, where we risk a relaxing pint in the Market Square. Or at least, I do. Tim has a Coke, because he wants to stop on the way home to introduce me to a new micro pub in Sheffield, called the Itchy Pig (or the Itchy Anus as it’s affectionately known).
Just as we’re leaving, the two guys and the dog from the Quiet Woman arrive in the square. We wave less cautiously this time, relieved to see they’re still sporting their heads.
Outside the Itchy Anus, Tim insists we sit in the car for thirteen minutes, until the clock strikes six and the parking becomes free. Well when in Yorkshire…
Inside, I order two pints of a particularly fine IPA and some chilli pork scratchings.
“They’re hot”, says the barman, looking me right in the eye. “Very hot.”
I nod and carry them back to our table where we dig in. I look around and clock the barman staring over, waiting to gauge our reaction. I smile and hope he can’t see the plumes of steam that are now pouring out of my ears, and the fact that my face has turned crimson. I have it on the good authority of a contact in the chilli trade that Heston Blumenthal, with the help of an MRI scanner and a hapless sous chef, has proved that hot chilli activates the areas of the brain associated with happiness.
So, perhaps it’s the pork scratchings, or perhaps it’s escaping execution in Earl Sterndale, or perhaps it’s the grateful recognition that men like Benny Rothman have won us the freedom to roam edifying natural phenomena like Chrome Hill, but after an inspiring journey through Staffordshire, Derbyshire and Yorkshire, I’m believe I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Sources/Further Reading
The Ramblers’ Association. (No date). General History. Available at http://www.ramblers.org.uk/about-us/our-history.aspx (Accessed Aug 2018)