The unspoiled beauty of the southern Pennine Hills is only a heartbeat from the industrial cities of central England
The farms and villages of rural England merge so serenely into the landscape they could be taken for part of the natural environment. Like chameleons changing colour to match their perches, English farmers have adapted their buildings and blended their fields so perfectly to their surroundings that they seem to spring directly from the dales and moorlands on which they were built many generations ago.
As we drove west from York, across the fertile flatlands in the lee of the Pennines we passed tidy farmsteads with half-timbered houses set among clumps of trees that mimic the patches of original forest. Fences and hedgerows between the lush green fields are covered with green vines and shrubs. Except for sheep dotting the fields it is a landscape rendered entirely in subtle shades of green.
But as we approach the Pennines and begin our climb onto the moorlands both the landscape and the farmsteads change. Scattered thickets of scrub trees are the only evidence of forest and the fertile bottomland of the dales is bounded by rugged fellside cliffs of limestone. The sturdy square farm houses scattered over the countryside, the bridges and walkways, and the buildings clustered together in tiny villages are all built of stone. Even the fields, no longer separated by green hedgerows, are surrounded by clean rock walls. Built without mortar the dry stone walls run for miles, portioning out the land according to some long forgotten pact between neighbouring farmers. This is limestone country and ever since the first tribesmen ceased their wandering and settled in the Yorkshire Dales limestone has been the building material of choice. Now the walls, the houses, the cobbled roads and stone-arch bridges all seem as much a part of the natural landscapes as the craggy heather-covered fells themselves.
At Skipton, near the southern end of Yorkshire Dales National Park, we turned south and, being careful to avoid the congestion of Leeds and Manchester, chose a back route along the crest of the Pennines into Derbyshire and The Peak District. Located in the middle of England's industrial heartland, sandwiched east to west between Manchester and Sheffield, and north to south between Leeds and Birmingham, Peak District National Park is a surprisingly unspoiled expanse of the southern Pennine Fells. The area was designated Britain's first National Park in 1951. Since then it has become one of the country's most popular destinations – so popular in fact that it is now the busiest park destination in Europe. During our visit in May the place was serenely quiet but decidedly cool.
We checked in to a B&B in Castleton and before doing anything else bundled up and set out on a long walk to stretch our car-cramped legs. The town of Castleton is a small collection of picturesque brownstone buildings at the head of the Vale of Hope. The Vale, a patchwork of green fields and dry stone walls, is surrounded on three sides by low hills and two miles to the north the 517 metre summit of Mam Tor challenged us to climb its rounded heather-covered slopes. It was only a three hour walk along a well-trodden path but it satisfied our need for some real exercise, and looking out from its summit across the rolling hills and green dales of the southern Pennines, so close and yet so remote from the industrial cities of England, it's easy to see why the Peak District has become a serene, much-loved retreat where urban folk can reconnect with the natural beauty of their country.
The next morning we climbed up to Peveril Castle which was built around AD1176 during the reign of King Henry II. Perched strategically atop a hill overlooking the town, the site was originally chosen for the protection afforded by steep slopes guarding it on three sides. Although designed as a defensive retreat it was used primarily as a posh hunting lodge where Henry and his heirs entertained their royal buddies. Back then Derbyshire was a wild uninhabited wilderness with an abundance of deer.
The old castle has seen better days but its four surviving levels still present a formidable presence. It's a credit to the Norman architects and builders that so much of the original keep and walls have survived almost a thousand years of weather and vandalism. Back in the days when Henry and his guests were washing down roast venison with draughts of strong mead, less fortunate occupants of the castle were subject to the rough justice of the times. Located near a natural opening in the roof of Peak Cavern, the Castle had no need for a dungeon. Prisoners were simply tossed into the hole that God provided. If they hit water and floated out alive they were pardoned, others were presumed to have been guilty.
Known locally as the Devil's Arse, Peak Cavern is part of a vast network of underground caverns that riddle the limestone hills of the Castleton area. Its gaping entrance, said to be the second largest in the world, once sheltered a small community of rope makers. For more than 400 years these guardians of what one 1720 writer called the "territory of Satan" plied their trade along a "ropewalk" that is still cluttered with their primitive wooden racks and machines. And high above the terraced floor where the rope-makers lived and worked, the great vaulted ceiling has been blackened by centuries of smoke from the tiny village they built beneath its protective cover.
Peak Cavern is one of four "show caves" near Castleton that offer guided underground tours but experienced and well equipped potholers from around the world are drawn to scores of other undeveloped caves in the area. Partly natural and partly the result of generations of lead and fluorite mining, the subterranean catacombs, many still unexplored, are a mix of lofty stalactite-hung galleries and narrow passageways that wind down into the bowels of the earth.
Before leaving the gaping entrance to Peak Cavern we adjusted our head-lamps and followed our guide down a narrow passageway leading to a huge chamber called the Great Cave. Sixty metres above us a hint of light in the roof is reflected from the passageway that surfaces near Peveril Castle, the very opening where hapless prisoners began their plunge to redemption or death. Later, when we were almost a mile underground, our guide had us turn off our head-lamps and experience, for a few moments, the absolute silence and utter blackness of the profoundly deaf and totally blind. The early miners, who had nothing but the ephemeral glow of a candle or oil lantern, must have worked in dread of being trapped in this alien world without light.
Lead and zinc, once the economic base of the community, are no longer mined in the Castleton area but Blue John, an intricately banded decorative stone made of translucent blue and yellow fluorspar, is still mined and crafted locally into jewelry and assorted trinkets for the tourist trade. After emerging from the depths of Peak Cavern we took a short tour of Treak Cliff Cavern where an unspoiled gallery beyond the old workings contains beautiful encrustations of Blue John as well as delicate yellow and orange stalactites. As we were leaving our guide suggested we should see the freshly "dressed" wells at Tissington.
Not surprisingly, maintaining a good supply of fresh water in an area riddled with underground caverns poses a challenge. The tradition of dressing wells and springs in thanksgiving for a bountiful water supply probably dates back to Celtic times and it is still practised in many of the small villages of Derbyshire. We headed over to nearby Tissington and spent the rest of the day admiring the lavishly decorated wells.
In an effort to catch the divine attention the wells are dressed in decidedly religious garb depicting such biblical themes as: "Jesus in the Wilderness," "Daniel in the Lion’s Den," "Moses Smites the Rock," and (my favourite) "The Serpent Deceiveth Eve." More remarkable than their message is the patience and artistic craftsmanship that went into their making. Each display consists of a wooden backing about eight feet tall on which the elaborate designs are rendered by pressing seeds, flower petals, twigs and other bits of natural vegetation into a coating of wet clay. Like snow sculpture and sand castles the "dressing of wells" is transient art, destined to crumble away after a brief but impressive display.
I'm glad we happened on them in their prime. In the morning we will be leaving the Peak District and by the time we get to London Adam and Eve, the serpent, and the Garden of Eden over Hands Well will already have started to fade.
