SECRET VALLEY
Enclosed, quiet, hidden: something in us longs for the peace and seclusion of a secret valley – and we know an absolute belter…
Walking into the heart of the valley feels like stumbling upon secret.” a genuine
LIKE A LOT of great discoveries (Corn Flakes, Bakewell pudding, penicillin, Velcro), CW’s first meeting with Bretton Clough happened by accident.
Let me take you back five years. Country Walking was about to celebrate its 25th anniversary, and to mark the occasion we set out to create a new 25-mile trail through the heart of the Peak District. Nice idea – 25 years, 25 miles.
There were certain prime cuts of the Peak District that we knew we wanted in the package: a bit of the Monsal Trail, a lot of Cressbrook Dale, the plague village of Eyam , Stanage Edge, Ladybower; big stuff like that.
But when it came to getting from Eyam to Hathersage, we were a bit unsure. There was a hilly bit between the two, but we knew very little about it. It was like that fuzzy white bit at the edge of your dreams, where the world your sleeping mind has created simply ends. The OS map might as well have been marked ‘Here Be Dragons’.
And so, one bright April morning in 2012, I set out to walk from Eyam to Hathersage, not expecting very much. What I found changed the route of our White to Dark Way. In fact it messed up the clever mileage idea because I had to extend the route by two miles. Because, having discovered Bretton Clough, there was no way I was leaving it out. It was too damn lovely.
So when we set our minds to finding ‘Secret Valleys’ for this secret-busting issue, Bretton Clough was the first place on our minds. With joy in my heart I went back to the hidden valley at the heart of the Peak District, and explored it in even more detail. And it didn’t disappoint. The abandoned vale Bretton Clough is hidden in the centre of a huge, roughly circular dollop of upland bordered by Eyam to the south, Bradwell to the west, the Hope Valley to the north and Grindleford to the east. The upland has no all-encompassing name, which might partly explain why it doesn’t feel well known. On the map it looks fortress-like, with steep scarps around its circumference like Eyam Edge, Hucklow Edge and Shatton Edge defending it from prying eyes.
But break through those defences and get to the middle of the moorland, and there are two circular valleys scything their way through it all. Abney Clough is the shorter, narrower of the two; Bretton Clough the longer, wider, deeper and more featured. It’s got a bit of everything: impressive rocky outcrops, a wide bowl of pasture land, outbreaks of woodland and marsh, and its own little stream, Bretton Brook.
What you won’t find is human habitation. Up until the 19th century there were five homesteads in the clough; remote outposts where hardy families with names like Bagshaw, Bradshaw and Bland farmed and tamed the middle of nowhere. Today all that’s left are ruins among the woods. The only civilisation left anywhere nearby is the tiny hamlet of Abney, at the top of Abney Clough.
Walking into the heart of the valley feels like stumbling upon a genuine secret. Little wonder that historically it has served as a hiding place. In 1745 the farmers of Eyam drove their cattle into Bretton Clough to hide them from Bonnie Prince Charlie, whose forces had invaded England and were seizing or slaughtering cattle as they headed southwards through Derbyshire. It feels confined; the enclosure seems to suck the sound out of the air, with the notable exception of skylarks.
At the top of the clough is the long scarp of Eyam Edge, beyond which lies the real world. The edge is a fabulous viewpoint, with a sight-line extending out over the village of Eyam and a dozen miles across the White Peak pastures to the south.
At this point I have to modify one of my earlier comments, as there is a fine little tuffet of civilisation up here: the Barrel Inn. At 1300ft, it’s Derbyshire’s highest pub (there are higher Peak District pubs, but the Cat and Fiddle is in Cheshire and the Traveller’s Rest is in Staffordshire).
The reason it’s here is industry. Eyam Edge houses a rich vein of lead which was mined here from Roman times onwards, and also fluorspar which was mined here from the 18th century. The pub was a miners’ haunt and a traveller’s respite. Happily, the death of those industries hasn’t killed off the pub. Despite its remote position on an unfrequented lane, it’s still a popular haunt, with its timber beams, open fires and brass trinkets. The food is smashing, too. You’ll be delighted to know we made it the halfway point of the brand new routecard in the back of this issue. You’re welcome. In thermal machines A little further along the edge is a woodland conservation area called the Silence Heritage Site. It’s a perfectly apt name for this part of the world, but it technically refers to the Silence Mine, one of the fluorspar operations that thrived here.
At this point you’re standing on the fault line between limestone White Peak and gritstone Dark Peak. A couple of millennia ago, this was the collision point of two landmasses in a shallow, tropical sea, creating the geological mash-up that today makes the Peak District so stoked with geophysical intrigue.
Further round still is the Derbyshire and
Bretton Clough; forgotten, overlooked, unknown, yet sitting in the middle of the most popular national park in the country.”
Lancashire Gliding Club. Like the more famous Yorkshire Gliding Club at Sutton Bank, the club’s pilots use the scarp to great effffect, riding the updraft that billows up Hucklow Edge to lift their elegant air-swans into the sky.
It’s fascinating to stand and watch for a bit. The pilot waves adios and climbs aboard, sealing his cockpit hatch. One minute the glider is standing five feet away from you; the next it is hoisted 600ft up into the air – in total silence – by the winch at the far end of the field. What was an immense, graceful aircraft on the ground is a speck against the sky eight seconds later, circling higher as the launch-line parachutes to the ground and the pilot finds a thermal to ride. You may well be back – at £69 for a 20-minute trial flight over the Peak District, it’s hard to think of a more idyllic way of taking to the sky.
The final leg of our walk crosses proper open moorland, in the shape of Abney Moor. The most impressive sight along this stretch is the vast plateau that suddenly becomes visible on the northeastern horizon. It takes a minute to work out that it’s the immense three-mile sweep of Stanage Edge, seen here at an unusual side-on angle.
And then we’re back at the heart of the moorland, watching the land disappearing into the secret valley again.
Bretton Clough, then: forgotten, overlooked, unknown, yet sitting in the middle of one of the world’s most popular national parks.
As with all the secrets in this issue, we run the risk of irking those who already know and love Bretton Clough by broadcasting it here in Britain’s best-selling walking magazine. But I think it’s about atmosphere rather than numbers. Even in the unlikely event of 25,000 CW readers deciding to visit Bretton Clough on the same Thursday afternoon in August, I’m reasonably sure it’d still feel pretty quiet.
I’ll ring the Barrel. 25,000 for lunch please, landlord.