Flash

Flash is the highest village in England, or at least the highest post office (and the highest pub). It's near a place I've been wanting to see, the old packhorse bridge at Three Shires Meet: that's where Cheshire, Derbyshire and Stafforshire come together. Back up a valley near Flash (at what passes for a high altitude in this area), it was reputed to be an old-time hang-out for smugglers, for here they could easily slip into another county if the constable showed up.

We spent most of the morning cleaning the cottage and packing up, but then after lunch jumped in Aprille's Land Rover and went over to Flash. We parked in the village and set out on the footpath up to Wolf Edge. We were trekking through the heather uplands finally. On the way down the far side the boys spooked some red grouse. We walked through the farms at Knotbury (one cottage had duck eggs out for sale: leave a pound and take a half dozen eggs)., and down the old packhorse route to Three Shires Meet.

It was a magical place: the rock was all pink sandstone, and the first pines we'd seen were growing there: it felt like Colorado. It would be a great place to stay at all day. Will threw a rock in the Pannier's Pool below the bridge, and a ring ouzel flew out. Galen had his picture taken in each of the three shires.

We returned to Flash by going south around Turn Edge, and ascending through fields. In one field there were alpaca, who looked like something out of Dr. Seuss: giant clean sheep with long legs. The final ascent to Flash was steep, and we earned our dinner.

Aprille made us a special treat: Aga-cooked Baked Alaska! Wow.

Arbor Low and Bakwell

Arbor Low is a bronze age stone circle inside a henge (a bank and ditch) near here. Aprille had never seen it, and so we drove over together. I made the left turn at Warslow correctly this time, which felt good.

To get into Arbor Low, which is on private land, you park and walk up a lane through a farmyard. Aprille said this farmer was really on top of things: the sheep were already shorn. There were lots of cows as well, and they were grazing right through the 6000 year old site. It's all pasture now, although presumably it was forested here when built.

Arbor Low would be something like Stonehenge except in medieval times the local residents came and pushed each stone carefully over, perhaps to weaken the pagan energy. The bank and ditch are unchanged however, and it was irresistible for us to make a circuit on top of the bank. Galen and Will pretended to be warriors and kept shooting their (imaginary) bows at each other.

We walked over to adjacent Gib Hill, a neolithic barrow with a bronze age barrow atop it. From our point of view though, just a small hill. Kate really enjoyed the dramas of the sheep field: ewe and lamb separated; ewe and lamb reunited! The lambs were ridiculously cute. It might be a bit more difficult to eat one now.

Aprille set off for home, and we continued on to Bakewell on winding back roads. In the town we parked on the far side of the River Wye, and crossed over on a footbridge: it was a festive scene of ducks and geese on the river surface being fed by the many people on the river bank eating lunch. We sat down and ate our picnic lunch too. Will threw in a few bread chunks to the ducks but before the ducks could get them they were gobbled up by enormous trout waiting just below the surface. I've never seen so many trout.

Many little stops in Bakewell, which is a beautiful town of stone: Holland & Barretts to buy a jar of the tasty but disappointingly named 'No-Caf,' for Kate; Post Office to mail a letter for Galen; Toy Store to look at Airfix models and jigsaw puzzles; Bakewell Tart Shop to buy the obligatory Bakewell Tart (smallest possible); Bookstore for a tree guide and maps for Morgan, a wildflower guide (grouped by flower colour) for Kate, and a Roald Dahl book for Galen; the sweetshop for candy; Millets outdoor store to browse.

In the Post Office I noticed the clerks behind bullet-proof glass, just as they were in Longnor. Aprille says there have been attacks on post office workers by disgruntled people. Weird.

We walked up to the Parish Church to explore its dark and cool interior. Galen walked the Stations of the Cross and read what was written at each one. There was Norman stonework all along the back wall. Will tested and tried every door. The boys are as intrigued by a church as a castle.

In the graveyard outside a sign read "Old House Museum: turn right at lych gate." We didn't know what the lych gate was (it is the gateway covered with a roof found at the traditional entrance to a British churchyard, for those of you know like to know) but Will said we must go to this museum. We followed the path up and around to an old house, built in 1570's and added on it in bits over the years. It turned out to be a brilliant museum of both the house (we got to see a real wattle-and-daub wall) and Bakewell's history. (The town name has nothing to do with Baking, and everything to do with a Well.) They even had a dress-up room where you could try on clothes from former eras. It turns out that Galen and Will both look good in a cap.

By now it was about 3:00 and the boys were agitating for fish and chips, so we bought an order and carried it back to the river to divide between us. Then our Pay and Display parking ran out and we set off for home, via Monyash. Kate took over driving at Longnor and did a brilliant job! She is much more natural to this than I am.

Driving On Our Own To Trams

We were up and off by 9:45 today. Last night was our first night of complete sleep! This morning, after breakfast (picture Morgan bustling from the kitchen to the living room carrying food for the boys, who are playing Derbyshire Monopoly) We packed whatever food we had left as a snack, and set off for the National Tramway Museum, at Crich Tramway Village. It was out first trip without Aprille, so we ourselves had to do all the navigating to the village of Crich, on the far side of Matlock. About an hour's drive. Overcast skies, a bit of wind, the occasionally spitting rain. Here we go.

The only mishap was when I turned left on the B 5053 at Warmslow, and as I was explaining to Kate why it was not the B 5054 (as the map seemed to indicate) I lapsed in my attention momentarily and gravitated unconsciously into the righthand lane. I had a moment of mystification when I saw a truck headed straight for us. "Oh shit!" I said, and swerved back into my lane. Pant pant. Breathe. I'm sure the other driver wondered who the idiot was.

We agreed I was henceforth not allowed to try to glance at the map while driving.

Otherwise we travelled without incident. Will now helpfully chants "Left! Left!" from the back seat whenever I am making a turn. There was the usual dance of going down the wrong road and turning around. It is remarkable how most of the roads here have no shoulders, nowhere you can pull off. We did find a pull-out in the forest west of Cromford so that we could stop and let Will's stomach settle. Oddly, the pull-out had a number of bird feeders set out, so there was a birding bonus. We saw a Great Tit, close relative of the Blue Tit who had obligingly perched on our windowsill this morning. (Think, colourful chickadees.)

At the tramway village we were given an old copper penny for each adult and a ha'penny for each child: these were our tram fare for the first tram that happened by, on which the conductor gave us day tickets. They have a line that runs from a village up into the countryside and back. We first rode on a double-decker, open-topped tram from Sheffield, and later on a single floor tram from Oporto, Portugal, whose interior was full of lovely woodwork. On each ride the conductors tell you about the history of their particular car. On the way up you pass by an operating stone quarry, so momentarily there's a wonderous vehicle-and-machine overload for kids. In between rides we toured the sheds in which they had some 60 other trams, all lovingly restored. The power of tram enthusiasts. We had lunch and bought some interesting old-fashioned candy.

It stayed grey overhead, but never rained a bit. Kate says her weather magic (which typically brings us the endless sunshine she hates) is having a standoff against the mighty English weather, and the result is mixed cloud.

We left the bird and flower guides at home (what birds are you going to see at a tram museum?), but foolishly so! We saw something really weird that was black and white. I managed to get a photo of it. We saw a heron fly over head, but which heron? And the forest floor on the Woodland Walk was covered with a beautiful plant that perhaps was wild garlic, but we couldn't be sure. Alas, never leave guides at home.

I listened to people around me talking and marvelled at the local accent, which I guess is the accent of Birmingham, Manchester and Sheffield (the three nearest cities). There was many adults there without kids, presumably retirees or simply tram enthusiasts with time on their hands. Some came in a tour bus. Some were our tram conductors and drivers. When they say "That was funded..." I hear "That was foonded..." Their vowels are fronted. And there's almost a glottal stop in some words. Must learn more about this.

Kate and I pondered, at the old fashioned candy shop, why the abbreviation for the old pence was "d" (and sometimes even "D"), as in '5s 6d' for "five shillings, sixpence." We also wondered if people would understand a written phrase like '5 £'s of apples'. At one end of the tram line a sign yielded a gem:

Danger: Uncharted minshafts. Please stay on the footpath.

It was a very slow-paced place, and we left around 3:00. Drove up to Matlock on the A6 (I'm comfortable on the "A" roads--they are actually a little wider than standard, and the twists and dips have been smoothed a bit) and spotted a Sainsbury's grocery store. I got a standing ovation for the quick, yet clean, left turn I pulled to get into the parking lot. Will was feeling queasy again, so we hung out outside the store hoping a train would come by on the adjacent tracks, while Kate and Galen bought us a couple more days' food. Will and I also surveyed the small (to us, miniature) cars in the parking lot that we'd rather own: Renaults, Fiats, a Mercedes Benz, Citroens, a Ford, a Vauxhall, a Suzuki...

We must have missed the turn for Longnor because soon we were in Bakewell, and found it a very appealing town where out our windows we caught glimpses of sweet shops, bakeries, a toy store and a bookstore. There was much clamour that we should return here. We found the turn for Monyash (I had to pull the classic stunt of going around the roundabout twice while reading the signs; fortunately you have right-of-way once you're in the roundabout and you can just keep going around until you decide to quit), and drove home that way, coming through Longnor and feeling great pleasure at knowing the way home after a certain point.

I have to say I am getting comfortable with the absurd scenario played out daily all over the area: a narrow road in a village, both lanes barely the width of a car, and people have parked up the side of the street! You and the oncoming traffic are left with 1.2 lanes between you. And yet somehow it works out.

Aprille made us dinner, and we baked her second loaf of no-knead bread. The "Roasting Oven" of the Aga stove seems a little too cool to get the crispy crust I expect: both our loaves so far have come out a bit soft and damp. Also perhaps the pre-heating of the cooking pot is robbing the Aga of too much heat at a crucial time? Still, Aprille has been bitten by the bug of making bread. She bought some malt flour today (what is that?) to try next.

Taking a photo of the mystery bird paid off and I was able to identify it as a Pied Wagtail. The heron had to be a grey heron: it's the only species of heron here.

Rest Day, With Walk

Lazy morning. Will slept in. Slept almost 12 hours in fact. Galen was lost in the land of Risk: playing Risk, thinking about Risk, talking about Risk. I went for a run, out the driveway and south on the road (fun area: there's a FOREST, a real rarity in these parts, with blueberry plants growing on its edge; a farm with donkeys; a driveway that said Out Of Bounds For All Military Vehicles). So we got going at about 11. Warm and windless: for me it was our first t-shirt day!

Our first task was to help Aprille assemble, for the first time, her new tent. It is a big, three-room affair which she will be taking to a bluegrass festival in Wales later this summer. Its size makes it a bit daunting to put up, but we managed, figured out all the details, and then packed it up again. And fit it back into its original bag, which, if you've put up a lot of tents, is really the mark of good work.

After lunch, we set out for an authentic Peak Park ramble with Aprille and Molly. Our goal was to go from Boosley Grange to Bridge End, a farm next to a bridge over a tributary to the river Manifold (named for its many folds), and return; outbound via Smedley Stych, return via Halhill (these are both farms). Really all you're doing in this peak district walking, around here at least, is walking through people's farms and long-used public footpaths.

It's a bit odd. If the original intent and use of these paths was for farm families to visit one another, the current use as recreational walking is very different. Instead of knowing the way, we read maps, but unlike a trail system there's often no trace on the ground of which way the footpath goes. The confirmation that you're on the right track is the stile with the "Peak Park" tag on it you come upon in the next fence or hedgerow.

This walk was about 4.5 km, and on it we walked mostly through grassy fields with cows or sheep in them. The boys were dragging and we kept them fed with sweets. Will's feet were hot. There was the occasional tree or hedge, but mostly it was ground blasted by livestock. The tributary of the Manifold, at the bottom of our circuit, flowing as it would into the richly-sung trout stream of Izaac Walton, looked and smelled suspiciously like the collective agricultural runoff of the area, and Will refused to dip his feet into it. (Perhaps it comes cleaner after disappearing into limestone further downstream, and then resurfacing.) Good birding however: lapwing, common buzzard, willow warbler, skylark, and something with a reedy, buzzy complex song that might have been a robin, but got away before we could identify it. The skylark shot from the ground and flew around and around us, rising, singing without stop. Skylarking.

Molly was unable to negotiate stiles, so I would lift thirty quivering pounds of whippet over each. The dog is all eagerness, but is not too smart about barbed wire. We saw a rabbit, and she was passionate about chasing it, but Aprille was firm. In one field we were challenged by some cows who seemed to have had too much coffee, but they ran off when Aprille and Molly turned directly towards them.

Although this area is packed with sheep, Aprille says their wool is thrown away. It brings less than it costs to shear it. Instead, these are lamb operations. Who's eating all this lamb?

Back at the cottage we rustled up some dinner and called it an early night. I read up on Arbor Low (a stone circle), how the Peak Park's romantic and desolate moor landscape of heather is in fact the wholly unnatural, engineered creation of generations of human effort; and a village called Chapel-en-le-Frith which is pronounced (yes, you guessed it) *chapel-en-le-frith*.

Castle and Cave

We set out in the morning for Castleton, a village that hosts four or more limestone caverns, and a ruined Norman castle called Peveril. Driving there was, well, almost pleasant. We went through Buxton and on north to Winnat's Pass, and at times I had flashes of the car being like an extension of my body: I could feel where it was going. I could be almost... casual.

We parked at the Visitors' Centre in Castleton, and followed a school group up the streets to the Peveril Castle office. This was our first encounter with English Heritage, a group that operates quite a few historic sites in England. It is once of these organizations we've heard offer you good discounts if you're a member, like the Royal Bird Preservation Society, or the National Trust. We joined up because for £77,because it will admit the whole family free to this and future EH sites, and admissions typically run more than £10 for a family. I think if we visit five or six sites it'll have paid for itself.

But what was so interesting about Peveril was how well it was done. The little visitors' centre was beautifully done; the castle itself was scrupulously kept; the girl runing the front desk was so very pleasant and nice and friendly. It strikes me that when we talk about the difference between Canada and the UK, when we talk about the UK being smarter and more classy, what we really mean is that people aim to do things well here. They take a personal interest in you; they act in a friendly manner (i.e., they act like they're you're friend). In North America there is, what: a fear that being friendly would not be professional?

After lunch at a pub, we went to see one of the caverns. (Note to self: at next pub we can order two meals to feed four people.) I convinced everyone that we should see Speedwell Cavern because you tour it by boat, which seemed rather bizarre and unique to me. What it turned out to be was, in essence, an abandoned mine, where they dug a tunnel and filled it with water to float ore out in boats. So, a bit of a disappointment. Hardly anything to see.

However the boat ride through the tunnel was an eye-opener. It was one of those rare experiences where you get to see something before the Safety Committee reviews it. First they pass out hard hats, and you think, "Well, that adds to the effect." But no: in fact we hit our head so many times on the low ceiling, the hard hats were essential. For more thoughts on their safety practices from the Time Before Safety see my other blog entry here.

Back in Buxton we stopped at a candy shop and an Airfix model shop. I hung out on the street and topped up the cell phones and activated the voice mail. I noticed that the recorded woman's voice said for me to hit the "hash mark" (#) instead of calling it, as I would, the "pound sign." Obviously here the "pound sign is £.

Incidentally, what is going on with "Top up now?" Everywhere I go I see little signs in windows inviting me to "top up now", meaning to add money to my pay-as-you-go mobile (aka cell phone). Is this the dominant way of paying for mobiles here? At home we might see pay-and-talk options advertised as bus stations and youth hostels, but most people have a flat fee monthly, because it's cheaper than paying as you talk. But in England perhaps it's cheaper to pay as you go.

I began a list today of funny things the British live with. It's a very progressive country, but it is, well--is "hampered" the right word?--by some odd cultural baggage. In other words, these are the things you would use to complete the sentence, "It looks great to live here, but one thing you would have to put up with is..."

First thing on my list is something called "Salad Cream." Heinz sells one version, which would lead you to suppose, and correctly so, that it's in the condiment section of the market. It looks like a kind of runny white mayonnaise. Must try some, so can confirm that it is as dreadful as it looks.

Everywhere we go, by the way, I see English flags. Not the Union Jack, but a red cross on a white field: like the Swedish flag, but red on white. It's the cross of St. George; it's the English component of the Union Jack, whose blue cross, the cross of St.Andrew, is the Scottish component. Why do people want to fly this English flag? There seems to be something to find out here.

Made bread with Aprille, which we had with some of her superb roasted tomato soup for dinner. More Risk in the evening. We make it two turns tonight before falling asleep.

Buxton and exploring "public footpaths"

We went to Buxton today: a little driving practice for me, an opportunity to buy food for our cottage as well. The cottage has a small refrigerator: half-size we would say in North America. The main house has the same small fridge, but Aprille says, "This country has definitely decided to go for big fridges." A shame. Small ones are so aesthetic.

In Buxton, the consistent building colour from the local stone is compelling. The town looks so nice. Aprille says it's because nothing happens around here without approval of the planning commission: first the parish council, then the regional council, and finally (and most restrictively) the Peak Park. I wish we had more of that in Canada. Why give people the freedom to make ugly things? We told her about our house being sided in vinyl. She was appalled.

It was a Sunday, so lots of people out in the park, sweet shop closed, groceries at Waitrose's. This was a wonderful rich stimulating experience. Nothing quite so elemental as food, and when the food is in all new packages, sometimes with new names (Salad cream? Single cream?) it's like a wonderland.

I found that in Buxton we had a cell signal, and I was able to start trying to figure out how to put credit on the phone.

Driving was better today. After a good night's sleep (awake only from 3 to 5 a.m.) I felt refreshed.

Back at the grange, we went for a walk where the map showed a public footpath: out the driveway, along the road to the right, then along a fence line to someone else's farmyard. Thence, across his fields, and back to Boosley Grange from the back. This is quite legal.

The footpaths date from way back when, and the Park is essentially founded on them. They are the continuation of public rights on what were traditionally ways farming families would visit one another. So if you own a farm here and a public footpath comes through it, you are required to let people come through. Consequently you see little signs within farms like "Private: no footpath" meaning that you've taken a wrong turn around the barn.

But it was eerie "trespassing," (as I thought of it) through this guy's farm. Aprille said she'd herself never walked through here. I suppose that when a Walker, a recreationist from Away, passes through, he's a tourist; but when your neighbour walks through on the public footpath, it's your neighbour walking through your farm, which is quite a different thing.

Galen wanted us all to play Risk, but after dinner in the warm cottage, jet lagged as we still are, we could stay awake for only one turn.

Learning to drive again

The first thing I had to do with my Vauxhall Insignia at Manchester Airport was to pilot it down seven or eight levels of a car park (the Enterprise operation at Manchester airport being on the ROOF of the parking garage). On no sleep. It was almost fun, like a training exercise to get me familiar with my car: descending down twisty little ramps. But I have to say that from the word go, my front left bumper was terra incognita. I really had to sympathize with Mark's hitting a parked car in Nova Scotia with a rented camper. My neural structure for driving, honed over 35 years of driving on the right, has no pathways for projecting my car-body-self out in space forward and left. I wasn't sure where that corner of the car was in space. Somehow I didn't hit the walls of the car park, but it didn't feel like *I* had been in control.

When we pulled out of the airport, the stay-left thing was surprisingly easy. You know those things at Science Museums where you copy a shape with a pencil while being able to see your hand only in a mirror? Or you look through glasses that turn your visual image upside down? It feels impossibly clumsy, yet you know that if you did it every day your neurons would adapt. It would eventually feel normal, and you could perform again. That's how this felt.

We left the airport and headed along back roads towards Macclesfield, Aprille leading. It was a good beginner version of the real thing: I just followed her. Roundabouts were fine. Kate sat in the passenger seat (on the left!) and verbalized what I should be doing.

However--I don't know about you--but for me there's a specific feeling of discomfort with tasks that are neural training. You know: you can only take it for so long, and that would be under ideal conditions. In our car, things began to fall apart fast, and ideal conditions were, just really, gone. The roads were narrow, with no shoulder. Oncoming traffic was fast. If I had to pass a parked car or a pedestrian in my lane it was a nightmare of not knowing if I would hit or not. Sometimes my wheels would nick the curb unexpectedly, or flowers sticking out from hedges would rat-a-tat-tat along the side of the car. Will, who had been airsick all morning, began to throw up in the back seat. Any collision looked like death. It was no longer fun!

The width of the road lanes here is like a cruel joke.

In the moments before the fatal accident that never happened, there were these road signs I kept seeing out of the corner of my eye that said "Slow Down Now!" I don't know what they were really for, but they were very comforting. It was the message I wanted to hear. It was the message I wanted everyone to hear.

A short section through Macclesfield where the roads were slightly wider was a relief. We saw the rail station. There was a traffic light. Life seemed almost normal. (Note to self: remember to ask what it means when both the red and orange traffic lights are on.) But now we got into the Peak Park, and the roads didn't even make a pretense of being two lanes.

Near the hamlet of Flash (highest post office in England!) my desire to continue was overwhelmed by my need to stop and get out of the simulator. I pulled over in a gravelly lay-by near a farm house. Aprille came back. We got out. Kate persuaded me to eat a bit, because it was already 2:00 and I hadn't eastern since breakfast. The wind was lovely, The ladscape was lovely. The sun was shining. I relaxed a bit. I saw a chaffinch and a jackdaw, birds I had never seen before.

We finished the drive. As we drive along I actually heard sheep bleating, like an errant sound bite from a Thomas The Tank Engine episode.

I am little nervous to get back in the car. I think I will be double-checking my kids' seat belts before we drive. I hate our big ugly town car. I think I can learn this, but it will take days. Walking is looking really good.