Lost Lad Read online

  Further on, 18th century folk were amazed to see a 'river in the sky' when the Wigwell Aqueduct was first built. Effectively a man-made river flying 30 feet over the River Derwent.

  "Mind it don't fall down! It did when Mester Jessop finished building it in 1791, but 'e put it all back straight away. A 'spect it's steady now."

  They were told to observe a spooky and gothic looking stone building which had a huge chimney with an odd distinctive wide parapet. This was Leawood Pump House, the home of a massive 1849 beam steam engine, still in working order which could suck up water from the river to replenish the canal at the rate of 31 tons every minute.

  Further still on the left and high up in the wooded hills, they should note another mighty, even older hissing and spitting steam engine which used an endless rope haulage system to pull heavy materials 1000 feet up a steep incline. The High Peak Railway moved goods from the Cromford Canal all the way across the top of Derbyshire to Manchester.

  The old man bid them farewell and told them to be careful of snakes! A warning received by Scott with some scepticism, but, in warm summers, the occasional adder has been spotted.

  All those advertised features caused considerable comment and provided great excitement; especially the murky depths of the tunnel with its dark echoing drips, a spooky journey with a tiny window of daylight at the far end. They explored a 'haunted wharfinger's cottage', an old picturesque crumble of masonry and invasive foliage just south of the aqueduct where a short canal branches off to Lea Mills.

  The canal came to an end at Cromford Wharf next to the one-time water powered cotton mill, according to the old man, the world's first factory. Across the road, briefly, they noted the pleasing proportions of St Mary's Church and its densely shaded churchyard. Nobody was there to tell them that it was a mausoleum for the Arkwright family who once ruled the area.

  It all became different. It became colder with the fast racing river and tall trees on their right, a sheer rock face on their left with more trees, big trees, high up at the very top of the rocks - all creating deep cool shade. Titch found it a little intimidating, Dobba loved it. Feeling the chill, Rex put his shirt on and Scott, keen to be back on course, was looking for a castle over the river which should be, but was not in sight. Having raced on ahead along the rough path, the twins saw it first: dominating the valley, a solid baronial eminence proclaiming the wealth and power of Sir Richard Arkwright who had built Willersley Castle in 1792.

  It was a right turn at the end which took them onto the busy A6 which curved between Masson Mill with its unusual convex weir and the mighty Masson Hill on the left which is honeycombed with old lead mines. All six boys had visited the popular Matlock Bath, a happy resort of thermal springs, Victorian nostalgia, old hotels, little cafes and a maze of intriguing rocky nooks and crannies. Obediently they steeled themselves to pedal past the temptation of garish modern amusements following the leader who was determined to reach Wormhill before 6.00pm.

  They were keen to identify to each other familiar landmarks. Victoria Tower surmounted the wooded hill of the Heights of Abraham on the left and the impressive sheer cliff face of High Tor loomed on the other side of the river. Titch insisted he could see a face in the rock. Danny suggested it was the face of the old man on the canal watching over them.

  It was a relief to turn left and escape the busy traffic at Matlock Bridge, but Dobba and the twins had to dismount in the face an incredibly steep hill: a capitulation which forced the others to do likewise. Scott assured them that it was worth the hard labour and detour through Snitterton to avoid five miles of the main A6. At the summit they were rewarded with magnificent views of Matlock town climbing up the far eastern hill sporting the distinctive Victorian Smedley's Hydro and the mediaeval looking Rockside Hydro. Mr Smedley's one time home, Riber Castle, crowned the adjacent hill to the south.

  Descending down the windy narrow lanes through a tiny wooded community called Oker, the group felt that they were the first outsiders to visit that remote hamlet in hundreds of years. A shaded narrow lane came into sunny open fields but was abruptly barred by a very private looking gate which precipitated an urgent conference and studious perusal of the map. All was well, this was the gated road, as foretold by Mr Matthewman. The next mile would require the opening and closing of several gates but had the benefit of being dead flat on the meadows of the Derwent river plain. Now they had a vast amount of room under a big sky. This journey was blessed with extraordinary sharp contrasts of scenery, even by English standards.

  Suddenly they stopped! A menacing group of staring cows stood close, too close, to the open road which did not have the usual protection of a kind hedge. Scott tried to re-assure by insisting that the cattle were all cows and everybody knew that cows were perfectly safe. However, the lads were more alarmed still when the usually fearless Rex (sporting his tight bright red jeans) commented on the look of one particular unfriendly, glowering 'cow' of distinctly masculine build which did not seem at all pleased to see them. He added -

  "A canna see any tits on that cow!"

  Nobody wanted to use the word 'bull', but all eyes were straining to discern any visible male genitalia. After a few tense moments, the impasse and indecision was broken by the boss who - "'adn't time ta muck about." Bravely and with dignity he rode past the beast. His troops followed, immediately overtook him and, with considerable anxiety and maximum effort, accelerated up to the safety of the next gate.

  Chapter 8

  Water-cum-Jolly Dale

  When in Derbyshire, any route from river level is almost certainly to involve very hard work. So it was that the climb up to Stanton Moor was slow and hard going for the cyclists who (never having heard of it anyway) were unaware of being just below the ancient, legendary Nine Ladies Stone Circle. Simeon loved his leafy glades and this beautiful wooded minor road to the east of the moor was a treat. Huge gritstone rocks, perilously piled up on the left caught narrow beams of sunlight giving an occasional sparkle from fragments of quartz. They went down the hill, taking a right fork, avoiding the village of Stanton-in-the-Peak - which would have been another treat had time permitted.

  Speeding Down Pilhough Lane, Dobba's shirt flapped furiously in the wind and even more so down the steeper and narrower Stanton Hall Lane until they came to a small, timeworn, mossy bridge crossing the River Lathkill which was about to join the River Wye. Moments such as this were pleasantly consuming the day: leaning over stone parapets looking into crystal waters, spotting fish, making humorous observations, exchanging adolescent comments - all part of the bonding process.

  It was midday - they had to move and move quick. Re-joining the mercifully flat, if busy A6, gave them an opportunity to zip along the last two miles to Bakewell in this wide valley created by the River Wye.

  Again it was the observant twins who yelled out the discovery of a mighty castle with medieval battlements from fleeting glimpses through heavy foliage on the far side of the river. As all heads turned right, Scott took satisfaction in calming the excitement and airing his superior knowledge by a dispassionate, deep voiced announcement of - "'Addon 'all".

  "Wot's 'e say?" said Titch

  "A think 'e said - 'Bugger all'," said Rex.

  "No! Ay said - 'Sod all'," shouted Brian.

  Bakewell was busy. Bakewell was always busy on Saturday, but from past experience Scott had discovered a quiet, high quality route into the town centre, cutting a mile off the main road. Just opposite Intake Lane, a footpath took them into the Rutland Recreation Ground. Here they could walk by the river side and then straight into a wide choice of cafes and tea shops located in a pleasantly confusing maze of quaint little streets. Dobba's eye was caught by an autumnal woodland oil painting -

  "Nice intit. Forty nine an' eleven!"

  "If ya look at it 50 times it's less than a shillin' a look," said Scott.

  "Look at it 600 times, Dobba, then it's only a penny a look!" said Titch. The innumerate Dobba was quietly envious of Titch's quic
k arithmetical ability.

  They were all hungry. Many of the eating houses looked a little on the posh side to this little bunch of ragamuffins who were sensitive to their casual appearance and social standing. A cafe, snack bar or even a humble tea shop would be OK, but something which looked like, or proclaimed itself to be a 'Restaurant' was definitely out of the question. They risked being made to feel unwelcome, or worse, told to leave, not to mention the small matter of having enough money. As this was a special treat it had been decided that a cafe was better than squashed sandwiches in the saddle-bag. After a brief reconnaissance, the 'Honey Bun Cafe' seemed about right, providing various items on toast with a cup of tea for under two shillings and a warm welcome from two attractive young women.

  It was nearly 2.00pm when they were replete and resting on long comfortable benches in the colourful and well stocked Bath Gardens. Looking up the hill, rising out of the trees, dreamily, Simeon unconsciously noted an interesting gothic profile of an elegant spire surmounting an octagonal tower, battlemented walls and finials. All Saints Church gave him pleasure together with the good company of his, now more sedate, companions. Simeon Hogg was very happy.

  The day was blessed with high pressure and blue skies but the temperature only modest in the mid to high sixties. A damp, well shaded main road going north was decidedly cool. Hard work pressing against a gradient helped to warm them up. The thin and slightly undersized Forresters gave triumphant bell rings as they overtook Rex and Scott who usually occupied the second and first positions. Ashford-in-the-Water gave another opportunity to be pleasantly sedated, viewing big fish in clear swift cold waters. Moving on, some chance comment sparked a heated debate over a football celebrity, which ended with the humorous diversion of a noisy farmyard on their left, which, in turn, sparked Rex to do his brooding hen impression. All followed suit. All the way up to Monsal Head, they indulged in a performance which often irritated Mrs Cook, their former teacher. Six large 'hens' were clucking with varying degrees of emotion, starting with a relaxed, puffed out, slow contented cluck-cluck, up to an alarmed, feather scattering, panicked, squawk - as fowl after fowl pressed the pedals ever harder, each trying to get ahead of the other.

  This jolly madness was respectfully stilled when they reached the impressive view-point at the summit of Monsal Head: a panorama which was all the more breath-taking with such good visibility. Eyes travelled several miles, taking in the lush beauty along the Wye Valley to the north-west, and then, to the south-west, along Monsal Dale.

  Dobba became excited and voluble seeing a hand made faded sign over a cottage door offering pint mugs of tea. Scott consulted his map and watch before assenting to this much welcomed refreshment, eagerly enjoyed by the parched chickens as they admired the 1861 Monsal Dale Viaduct. A fragment of conversation between two fellow onlookers was overheard -

  "John Ruskin hated it! He said it destroyed the valley and ... 'now every fool in Buxton can be in Bakewell in half an hour and every fool in Bakewell can be in Buxton in half an hour.'"

  Scott North was the only boy to have had experience of the dangerous and precipitous drop from the heights of Monsal Head down into the depths of Upperdale. Mindful that his was the only bicycle in optimum condition in contrast to the others, particularly the rickety Forrester machines; he realised this posed an extra risk in addition to the inevitable bravado of kids showing off. A narrow road with a hazardous bend to the left would cascade them, hell for leather, 300ft into the valley in less than a quarter of a mile. In the absence of any adult, this knowledge kindled a heavy responsibility on Scott's leadership and accordingly he warned them to -

  " ... keep hold of brakes and go easy on the speed."

  Even so, the daring Rex reached nearly 40mph in those pre-safety helmet days and it was only by the Grace of God that all the racers reached river level without serious injury. Speed gradually subsided at a stand of dense conifers. Simeon was fascinated by the effect of sun beams penetrating deep into the gloom of the forest, falling on, and illuminating thick, dark purple beds of needles.

  A little past Upperdale they came to an area called Cressbrook Dale where Cressbrook stream meets the River Wye. A large textile mill, which had seen better days, dominated the area on the left and caught their interest. Pleasing Georgian symmetry was surmounted by a cupola and a handsome pediment housed a clock which appeared to have stopped many years before. This once prospering mill was owned by William Newton [1750-1830] the carpenter-poet known as the 'Minstrel of the Peak' who made sure his little apprentices had sufficient rest, good meals and pleasant working conditions in brutal contrast to the appalling conditions at Litton Mill just a mile upstream.

  Scott looked for a footpath to the riverside, which, in spite of its apparent invisibility, he knew had to pass between the mill and a very steep, densely wooded hill to the north. Success! A narrow passage took them, as it seemed, into another world. Like entering the 'secret garden', they had been transported into a beautiful secluded deep valley, shut in by rocks and woods, the first of a chain of lovely limestone ravines.

  Suddenly, here in Water-cum-Jolly Dale, it was cooler, more tranquil with a totally different atmosphere - save for a rush of water to their left which required investigation. Smooth, clear, polished water, slow at first, and then bending, dipping, just before getting cloudy and agitated as it tumbled over a rocky fall. For a few moments they were entertained by the occasional leaf which would accelerate and get pulverised in the turmoil below.

  The waterfall formed a constriction which created a small lake bounded by overhanging, sheer limestone faces: faces which amplified and echoed the evocative euphony of various water birds calling and crying. Nobody spoke, but everybody knew that this was a place to savour, a place to walk rather than cycle. There was a shared feeling of safety in the comfortable seclusion of this 'Shangri-La'. In this deep ravine, a serene, silent world of enchantment, steep rocks painted with lichen and moss gave a protective shield against modern noise.

  Rocks and trees everywhere. They looked upwards following interesting craggy forms which became ruined castles - crooked medieval castles. But, unexpectedly, above the natural finials, arose out of the high foliage - an unmistakable man-made gothic structure, fashioned after the style of a fairy tale castle. This fantastic riot of sharp pitched roofs, steep gables, ornate tall chimneys and stone mullioned windows - broke the silence. They had discovered the home of Dracula! As if to confirm the fact, a solitary hawk was hovering high in the distant blue.

  As they progressed, the lake became a river and the valley narrowed to become a gorge.

  The warmth of the afternoon reacted with the cold of rocks, water and shade to created sudden gusts which stirred up willows. Zephyrs flashed the underside silver of leaves making a stark, bright effect, which travelled along the riverside, waving in waves and swathes, rippling, swaying, bowing and beckoning - before subsiding and returning the foliage back to green.

  Ubiquitous ferns with their distinctive smell covered the banks, sometimes marestails pushed out of the mud and sometimes a delightful patch of forget-me-nots turned the riverside blue.

  The water had mood changes. When it was slow it showed shimmering reflections of ash and sycamore. When it was deep they saw long, gently waving green weeds stretched out in the direction of the flow. Inches above, cute little black balls of fluff were going 'tweet tweet' and 'squeak squeak' racing along to keep up with mum. Just occasionally, the sun struck through this gorge of contrasts and shadow to glisten, sparkle and twinkle off the river surface - a surface often broken by the quick leap of a fish catching a hapless fly.

  The valley seemed to get even deeper like a journey to the centre of the earth. The limestone had a multitude of tints from a flash of white to grey and occasional black. Above and beyond, right at the top, smooth, bright, green fields closely cropped by grazing sheep, were occasionally scarred by eruptions of ancient weather worn rocks.

  Down below the boys were entering Miller's Dale an
d being entertained by sinister grotesque shapes of long dead trees, still majestic in death as in life: living ivy feeding on the rotting wood. Here they scared each other with ugly goblins, old hags and monsters. Dense foliage formed mysterious tunnels and caves, darkened and obliterated with cascading ivy, lots of ivy, harbouring more unknown horrors.

  Abruptly, the teasing ceased when they saw an odd looking boy illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.

  Chapter 9

  Fairies, Goblins and Sacred Groves

  The boy spotlighted by sunshine was cutting shoots from a young tree with smooth, grey-brown bark and pale-green feathery leaves. He stopped ... and they stopped. Slightly built, certainly not as tall as Scott nor as well made as Rex, the stranger gave them a warm wide eyed smile. In so doing he appeared stranger than ever - especially at the utterance of a falsetto and comical - "Allo!"

  Coquettishly, head tilted on one side, just for a moment, his eyes came to rest on each boy in turn - starting with Scott ... and ending with Scott. Processing fresh information at close quarters, it became clear from his confident demeanour that this boy was, in fact, a young looking man - and at 34, not so very young at that. He was something quite outside their usual Heanorian experience, indeed, he was the effeminate and bizarre type which would simply not be tolerated in Heanor. Scott was cautious, Rex was repelled, the twins were amused and Simeon ... well, Simeon was intrigued. Titch was curious and blurted out -