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Tameside, Oldham, Kirklees, and former, Greater Manchester, Cheshire (prior to a boundary change) and West YorkshireWalk Details:
The Walk: |
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Introduction As well as being our first end-to-end bagging walk (although we had of coursed through-walked many times on long distance paths), it was also be the first time that Jim and I had arranged to meet a stranger through the web. Dominic had given us some great advice for the walk on Google Groups, and I’d invited him along with us as our local guide. We were a little nervous that he might turn out to be an axe-wielding maniac, although I’m sure it was far scarier for him to meet the 4 of us. In any case, some ribald emails passing between me, him and Cat at least showed he was up for a laugh (he told Cat to give me a slap after I said she was no lady). The accepted method for meeting a stranger is for said stranger to wear a red rose. However, Dominic chose to come clad in a red Mondeo instead, which made him very easy to find. I chatted to him as Jim & Cat headed off to leave a car at the far end of the walk. It turned out that he actually had a mountain leader qualification, and in fact had specialised in leading groups of kids up the hills – it seemed he would get on well with us lot! To such a professional, our little stroll was nothing, and whilst we were all kitted out in big walking boots and suchlike, Dominic had merely chosen walking sandals. At this point Jim and Cat returned, & I stopped typing nonsense and got on with the walk.
The circular walk around the reservoir was very busy, but as soon as we turned off up the Chew valley things got quieter. Jim took a photo of the stream that he claimed was his best picture ever, and I have to say the scenery was already some of the most picturesque I’ve seen in the Peak District, albeit a little browned by the recent month-long drought. Incidentally, why is it called the Peak District when its peaks are barely discernible bumps in flat moorland, whilst the valleys between them are the spectacular features of the area – why not call it the Valley District? At a huge cube of rock that Sherpa Dom said was very popular for bouldering we took a steep path up Rams Clough to our right. Here the relative fitness levels started to show as Cat and Jus dropped behind. Even Jim and I were having trouble keeping up with the pace Sherpa Dom was setting though. Still, it was no bad place to pause and rest – the view opening up behind us across the Chew valley and of the little white sailing boats on Dovestone Reservoir was superb.
Dom led us on a well-worn path along the top of the escarpment, that wasn’t shown on the OS map. Soon though, he turned “inland” across Wimberry Moss to reach our first summit of the day, Hoarstone Edge. As had been the case all weekend, the peat was bone dry, and we had no problem reaching what may have been the highest point (as with or moorland tops, it was hard to tell, but Sherpa Dom was most insistent that we identified it properly and didn’t “cheat”!). Away from the escarpment edge, the flat moorland restricted views, and we could frankly have been on pretty much any moorland summit – it was nothing special at all. Top details: We returned to the path along the escarpment edge and turned to follow it towards Chew Reservoir. Across the far side of the Chew valley we could see hordes of people following the tarmac’d service road up to the reservoir, and were glad that we’d chosen our wilder route. Sherpa Dom regaled us with tales of wild camping up here, but I have to admit I didn’t fancy it much myself.
Heading eastwards from the reservoir the scenery became much more pleasant, and as we entered the shallow valley of Chew Clough we were protected from the breeze. Knowing that the path ahead would be far less sheltered, we stopped for lunch on a grassy bank, and it made for a very pleasant picnic spot. Beyond, the path got quite boggy in places as it zig-zagged across the stream, and I can imagine it would be a little tricky in winter. We passed through a fence marking the boundary between the unitary authorities of Oldham and Sheffield. We’d already bagged the Sheffield top previously, and it was the Oldham one we needed. However, on Sherpa Dom’s instructions we turned left up the Sheffield side of the fence. The benefits of a local guide became clear, as the going was much easier on the Sheffield side of the fence, and there was a stile immediately adjacent to the Oldham top to enable us to reach it. The top itself, simply the highest lump of peat in the area, was no real improvement over Hoarstone Edge, although it did benefit from a bijou cairn. Top details: We re-crossed the stile and headed east across the moor (fortunately the peat was as dry as everywhere else we’d been this weekend) to join the Pennine Way, which Sherpa Dom referred to in disparaging tones as the Pennine Motorway. It was certainly eroded deeply into the heather above the attractive Crowden valley – at one point the path banks came up to my waist. We could see why – suddenly there were other walkers all around, the first other people we’d seen since Chew reservoir.
As the valley shallowed off into Grains Moss, we joined a section of path with slabs laid underneath, and knew that we were about to start the ascent of Black Hill – before the slabs were laid Black Hill was one of the most notoriously boggy sections of the Pennine Way. It must also be one of the most barren and forbidding looking, with few distinguishing features – the first people to cross here must have been fairly freaked out by it! The final push up to the Black Hill summit is not steep by any means, but Sherpa Dom seemed to suddenly run out of steam, and slowed up drastically (almost down to Jus’s pace) for the first time on the whole walk. Jim, Cat and I, on the other hand, were full of beans, and after checking he was okay powered past him and on up the hill. The top of Black Hill seems like an alien world – barely vegetated, with regularly scattered knobs of peat interspersed with wide tracts of eroded mud. It’s an unusual enough landscape to have a certain charm of its own, despite being ugly as sin. I’d imagine in wet weather and hill fog it must be an evil place for hikers, but today it was bone dry. We were now back within a couple of miles of a car park, and dozens of people could be seen across the flat and desolate plateau – Black Hill seems a surprisingly popular destination. The nominal summit (although as it’s pretty much flat it could really be anywhere) is at a wonky trig point set on a plinth. We got there at the same time as a party of about twenty elderly hikers, and took it in turns to take photos of each other’s groups at the trig. Top details: It was a bit chilly in the breeze to stay up here for long, and we soon headed off on the final leg of our walk to reach Jim’s car at Wessenden Head. Jim, Cat and I had our gander up now, and when we got caught behind a gaggle of exceptionally slow walkers (who saw us catch them up, but rudely made no effort to let us past), we galloped around them at breakneck speeds. At the bottom we had to wait for some time for Jus and Sherpa Dom to catch up!
We were even more disconcerted by Dean Clough and Reap Hill Clough. These valleys are invisible until you’re almost on top of them, when they suddenly loom deep and (to the tired end-of day walker) menacing. Actually they turned out not to be as difficult as we feared as first, and were lined with pretty tinkling streams, but I think Justin’s spirit was now well and truly broken and what with blisters and tiredness he just wanted to go home. It was pretty noticeable – Sherpa Dom referred to him afterwards on Google Groups as “the one who doesn't really like walking”! Things were about to get worse for poor old Jus though. After we’d reached Jim’s car and driven everyone back to the Dovestone Reservoir car park, Jus discovered that someone had put a small dent in the side of his MG. The friendly lady in the big 4x4 in the next space (who had clearly not done it as it was in a different place to where her door opened) was just sympathising with Justin, when a big gust of wind caught her door and slammed it hard into Justin’s car. Given that MG’s appear to be made of tin foil, it pretty much put a hole through the bodywork. Justin was not a happy bunny (he wasn’t a bunny at all), but at least he could claim it off the lady’s insurance. I checked my GPS and discovered that a surprising fact – we’d walked 8.88 miles and ascended 888 metres! It wasn’t a great distance for a day, and Jim and I decided we had the time and the energy to bag another couple of tops. Sherpa Dom had to get back to herding his yaks and headed off – we thanked him profusely for joining us on what had been a cracking walk. In the circumstances we weren’t surprised when Jus and Cat also decided to go home – we hoped the car damage wouldn’t put him off joining us next time. So, the weekend was to end as it had started, with just Jim and I heading off to bag “minor” tops. Verdict:
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Sherpa
Dom (as Dominic will henceforth be known) led us out of the southern end
of the car park, beneath the steep grassy banks of the Dovestone Reservoir.
Unlike most Sherpas he unfortunately didn’t make any attempt to
carry our luggage. He pointed out the dove shaped rock on the escarpment
to the left, and we agreed with his assertion that it looked more like
a duck. However, even squinting and with our imaginations on overdraft,
we couldn’t make the rocks on the escarpment to our right look like
his suggested Red Indian, I mean Native American.
In
retrospect, the problem for Jus and Cat at this stage might actually have
been exposure. The steep slope made Cat’s fear of heights kick in,
whilst the safety-conscious Jus said it felt horribly dangerous in the
wind and was pretty much crawling on his hands and knees by the top, claiming
it was a scramble. Jim and I, who had barely had to put our hands down
at all and had found it relatively easy, disagreed vehemently. Nearby
a couple of climbers were trying to make the ascent even harder by repeatedly
taking on the crags of Wimberry Stones. We watched them from the top over
cereal bars, whilst reflecting on the old adage “a hill walker looks
at a tricky hill and finds the easy way up, whilst a climber looks at
an easy hill and finds the difficult way up”.
After
a rough but pretty route around stony bluffs and across the occasional
peat gough, our path brought us to hordes of daytrippers (albeit daytrippers
of the more hardy variety) at Chew Reservoir. Now, when one thinks of
reservoirs, one tends to think of a sparkling blue rippling lake, festooned
with pleasure craft and with neatly mown grassy banks sprouting a happy
crowd of chattering picnickers – such as Dovestone had been. Chew
Reservoir is not like that. The choppy grey waters lurk menacingly amidst
barren moorland, the edges gradually fading into a peaty morass. A chill
wind laughs mockingly at the humble picnic rug that tries to set up home
here. We sheltered behind the low reservoir wall (through which the wind
seemed to blow with impunity) for a brief drink, and then pushed on eastwards
along the reservoir shores (such as they were). We were clearly the only
people venturing into the wild lands beyond – the daytrippers would
stay no more than a few minutes before scuttling back off down the valley
to the car parks.
The
valley bottom gradually rose up to meet the Pennine Way, and we crossed
Crowden Great Brook a couple of times on improvised stepping stones. It
was only a few inches deep, but Sherpa Dom said he’d been through
here in winter and had to cross the icy waters when they were thigh deep
– apparently he’d barely made it!
I
think we’d all got it into our head that it was a simple descent
from Black Hill to the car, and we’d be there in no time at all.
Looking at the map though, it was a good 2 miles we had left – and
it wasn’t all downhill either. When we got our first glimpse of
the traffic on the A635 ahead we refused to believe it was the road we
were aiming away – it was much further away and higher up that we
were anticipating. Even spotting a lizard on the path failed to lift our
spirits. Sherpa Dom took advantage of our momentary disconcertion to pick
up his pace and retake the lead.