The DARK PEAK WAY
BRITAIN CAME TO the national park idea a tad late. The Americans got there first. Yellowstone became the world’s first national park in 1872; Britain had to wait 79 more years to get one. But when we got round to it, we nailed it. And the Peak District is the proof.
Just think of the contrast. In 1932, access to the hill country between Manchester, Sheffield and Derby was so limited by private ownership that you could be arrested and jailed just for walking on it. On 17th April 1951, just 19 years later (and with a World War in between), that same land became Britain’s first national park, with a remit from the government to provide “high-value open air recreation to the public”.
Rarely in British history has a bad situation flipped so completely, to the benefit of so many.
Three more national parks followed in 1951; six more between 1952 and 1957; another in 1989; and four more between 2002 and 2010.
There’s a lovely story as to why the Peak District was the first to be designated, but we’ll get to that later. First, we wanted to celebrate the anniversary, and the best way we could think of was a walk. Not any old walk. Something a bit special.
We call it the Dark Peak Way.
THE BIG IDEA
“Moorland,
heather, wind-sculpted gritstone; immense plateaux with sheer sides: at this point you could
Britain.” be nowhere else in
The Dark Peak Way is a sequel. Back in 2012, Country Walking created a three-day walk through the Peak District from Bakewell to Hope. We called it the White to Dark Way, as it passed from the limestone-defined southern reaches of the national park (AKA the White Peak) to the heavy gritstone of the north (the Dark Peak). In the years since, hundreds of walkers have followed the W2D. Our inbox still pings with delighted messages and photos from those who’ve trekked those 27 meandering miles from Bakewell Tart Shop to Cheshire Cheese Inn.
So for the 70th anniversary of the Peak and its peers, we thought we’d do it again, for a time when we are out of lockdowns and free to roam. Another three-day epic, but this time devoted entirely to that spectacular, tactile, broody Dark Peak territory where the battle for access began.
It also does two things which the W2D doesn’t. First, it includes two features the old walk never touched: Kinder Scout and the Great Ridge. Second, it offers easy train links. In fact, it can be entirely car-free. It starts at Grindleford station, which you can reach by train from almost any point in the country. Day 2 finishes at Edale station, so if you’ve only got two days, you can finish there and come back some other time. Or do the full three-day epic, finish at Hope station, and head home.
By then you will have seen fabulous things over
25 amazing miles: Padley Gorge, Carl Wark, Higger Tor, Stanage Edge. Ladybower, Win Hill, Kinder Scout. Mam Tor, the Great Ridge, Lose Hill. You’ll start at a terrific tearoom and pass at least five perfect pubs, spending a night in at least one of them. You’ll explore Robin Hood’s Cave (possibly); see a road that got eaten by a mountain (definitely); paddle in three beautiful streams; tread a chunk of Kinder Scout that few walkers ever find, walk a smidge of the White to Dark for old times’ sake, and witness the birth of the Pennine Way.
The three sections are lengthy and hilly, so plan it for three long, warm days in spring or summer.
For now, let’s see what makes it so good.
DAY 1: GRINDLEFORD TO LADYBOWER (8½ miles/13.7km)
If there’s a more perfect way to start a big walk than Padley Gorge, I’d like to see it.
There’s no messing about: you’re out of Grindleford station, past the imposing portal of Totley Tunnel, and straight into beauty. The early section of the gorge climbs gently through oak and beech woodland, with the frolicky Burbage Brook to keep you company.
Higher up, the ground levels out, the trees recede, and the gorge becomes a shallow bowl, with paddling holes aplenty and tantalising glimpses of high, rocky ground ahead. By the time you’ve reached the A6187, you’ll know you’re in the Peak District – and specifically, that you’re entering the Dark Peak. Moorland, heather, wind-sculpted gritstone; immense plateaux with sheer sides: at this point you could be nowhere else in Britain.
Onwards, into the upper Burbage valley. This stunning expanse is guarded by the Toad’s Mouth, a pointy rock looming out over the road. Close up you’ll notice his mouth (a natural line in the rock) and his eye (engraved by human hand).
Burbage is a wide valley, fattening in the middle, with Burbage Edge to the right and, directly ahead, two flat-topped summits that seem to echo each other. First is the Iron Age hill fort of Carl Wark, echoed by the higher and more distant outline of the entirely natural Higger Tor.
Carl Wark’s name is fascinating. ‘Carl’ is thought to be a pseudonym of the Norse god Odin; ‘wark’ is work. Odin’s work. But in the Middle Ages (when Carl Wark most likely got its name), rural folk often used Odin/Carl as a hushed euphemism for the figure they feared most of all: the Devil. Hence Carl Wark is The Devil’s Work. You can see why the medieval farmers might have thought that. Somehow, the Iron Age residents managed to manoeuvre the colossal rocks of the outcrop into an immense defensive rampart. To later eyes, it may have seemed impossible that human hands could have managed such a feat. Far easier to give the credit to His Infernal Majesty.
The Wark is a great place to rest, but carry on to Higger Tor because it’s even better. It’s one of the greatest rock playgrounds in the Peak, its tors, crags and tunnels ripe for exploration.
And now turn around. Behind you is the top edge of the White Peak, all green hues and delicate pastures. Ahead now, all is enticingly Dark. Nowhere more so than the next objective: Stanage Edge.
Blimey. Stanage. The longest continuous edge in England. Three and a half miles of elevated gritstone scarp, staring out over the eastern end of the Hope Valley, every inch packed with stories. Stanage is a place of rare wildlife; the ring ouzel has thrived better here than anywhere else in England. And primitive industry too: from antiquity to the Middle Ages it was a powerhouse of millstone manufacturing. It’s also a shrine for adventurers. Many of Britain’s finest rock climbers honed their skills on Stanage’s famous pitches, including Joe Brown, Don Whillans, Ron Fawcett, Alison Hargreaves and Leo Houlding.
The highlight for many walkers is Robin Hood’s Cave. This multi-chambered platform is clearly
“Stanage…
Three and a half miles of elevated gritstone scarp, staring out over the eastern end of the Hope Valley,
stories.”
every inch packed with
▼
marked on the OS map and lurks just beneath the lip of the edge at its southernmost flank. It can be explored without any need for a rope, and is a great spot for photos that make you look superhuman.
But if you want to be a real Stanage expert, tell someone that this isn’t the real Robin Hood’s Cave. The real one is a little further along the edge and is invisible from the path. It can only be accessed via rock-climbing moves through a narrow fissure on the cliff edge, or a roped-up climb from below. Bill Gordon, who served as Stanage’s ranger for 37 years before his retirement in 2018, was adamant that what we know as Robin Hood’s Cave should be renamed Sled House Cave, because it was used as a garage for transport sleds when Stanage was a millstone factory. Robin of Loxley, he added, was a better judge of secret hideaways.
After Stanage, the route descends to the quiet lane of New Road, which loops round the side of Bamford Edge and brings Ladybower Reservoir into view – as well as the woody-skirted cone of Win Hill, tomorrow’s first objective.
In between are the warm lights and cosy beds of the Yorkshire Bridge Inn. And possibly, one of the best post-walk sleeps of your life.
DAY 2: LADYBOWER TO EDALE (10.3 miles/16.5km)
Day 2 is the wildest day. It gets you up high early on and keeps you there, and it swings well beyond the usual car park-friendly honeypots. It’s all about Win Hill and Kinder Scout.
The first stretch is the one crossover with the White to Dark. Leaving the Yorkshire Bridge, you cross the grass-sided buttress of Ladybower Dam (take note of the incredible ‘plughole’ overspill tubes sticking out of the reservoir at this point) and zig-zag up through the woodland on the far side, eventually emerging on the open moorland above. This in turn gives way to the rocky knuckle of Win Hill.
Apart from being a fine viewpoint, Win Hill ▶
WHY BRITAIN’S NATIONAL PARKS ARE DIFFERENT
In most other countries, national parks are owned and managed by central government, with no private land ownership, and they don’t usually include any human settlements or land use such as farming or mining. In Britain, national parks are each managed by a separate authority. Land is privately owned, and they do include towns, villages and industrial use (although there are strict restrictions on land use and development). Ours might sound like a watered-down version, but a) Britain has less wilderness space than the larger nations which pioneered national parks, and b) it was felt to be a good thing that national parks should be close to human populations, so that town and city dwellers would feel encouraged to make use of them. And that farming and recreation could coexist peacefully. So actually, in its practicality and desire to do right by everyone, our version might even be better.
is also one half of an excellent local legend. The story goes that in 626AD, the Northumbrian king Edwin brought his forces down to Derbyshire for a ruck with his two Saxon rivals, Cynegils of Wessex and Penda of Mercia. The Saxons took up position on one hill, the Northumbrians on the hill next door. And when the Saxons charged down their hill and tried to storm their opponents’ peak, the Northumbrians simply rolled massive rocks down on them, literally crushing the opposition. Thus the Saxon hill became known as Lose Hill – there it is, separated from you by the deep rift of the Noe valley – and the Northumbrians’ peak became Win Hill, where you stand right now. There’s absolutely no documentary evidence for the battle, but it’s a good story. And you get to tell it again tomorrow, because Lose Hill is the final objective of Day 3.
Win Hill is popular, but from here you leave the crowds (and the W2D) and enter the wilder phase of the day. Follow the Roman road north-west along the long spur of Hope Brink and onto Crookstone Out Moor, and you begin the exciting process of sneaking onto Kinder Scout by the back door.
There are dozens of approaches onto Kinder – Jacob’s Ladder, Grindsbrook, William Clough, Fairbrook Naze and Oaken Clough to name some classics – but few walkers come at it from this unusual eastern angle. From here, Kinder starts out as a small, harmless knobble up ahead, with nothing to signify the immensity of what lies beyond.
But as you climb to the crest, it all starts. The land in front of you refuses to drop away, becoming a plateau which recedes all the way to the horizon. Meanwhile, the hillside down on your left becomes steadily steeper. Rock and peat replace grass and shrub. Soon, you’re unmistakeably on the southern edge of Kinder Scout.
This big, brutal upland stakes a decent claim to being the birthplace of Britain’s national parks, because this landscape was what the mill, dock and factory workers of northern England craved access to in those stormy inter-war years. Denied to them, given over to grouse shooting for the privileged few, Kinder and its neighbours represented both a cause and an objective.
On 24th April 1932, two groups set out to climb Kinder in a show of defiance. One of the groups, coming up from Hayfield via Sandy Heys, ran into a posse of gamekeepers. Scuffles broke out, arrests were made. The trespassers were punished; some were jailed. But a reporter from the Guardian had been there to see the whole thing, and the story leapt instantly to the front page. ‘The Battle of Kinder Scout’ (known today as the Mass Trespass) brought the case for access into the hearts and minds of the public – and to Westminster. By 1936, in response to this and other stimuli, a committee had been set up to decide on the feasibility and possible locations of national parks.
In 1947, after an obvious break for World War Two, the committee came back and said ‘let’s do this’. In 1949, the National Parks and Access to the Countryside Act was passed with all-party support. In 1951, we got the Peak District.
Named after the nascent River Kinder, or ‘Kinder Scut’, that flows westwards off the moor via Kinder Downfall.
That is a very skimpy history. There were bumps along the road and it would be wrong to say the Battle for Kinder was the only driving factor in the creation of the national parks. But as an illustration of why Britain needed them, it’s flawless.
For now, enjoy the easy southern edge path and its breathtaking views. At Upper Tor you’ll reach the highest point on the whole trail, some 1982ft above the Edale valley.
The edge continues towards Jacob’s Ladder, but our route flicks left just after the tor, descending into the rocky gulch of Grindsbrook Clough. It’s a short, sharp descent that loses all those slowbuilding feet in the space of 40 minutes, ferrying you down to the village of Edale.
What an icon this place is. Ordnance Survey data consistently places Edale as the most popular place to start a walk in Great Britain. That’s partly because of a small footpath that heads off to the right as you arrive in the village. A small footpath called the Pennine Way. Follow it, and 268 miles later you’ll end up in Scotland.
Not today, though. Today you find your bed for the night (see Plan Your Trip), sink into it, and rest. It’s been a big day.
DAY 3: EDALE TO HOPE (6.6 miles/10.7km)
I can be slightly briefer about this one, because it essentially consists of three words.
The. Great. Ridge.
It’s not an official designation, but it’s what everyone calls it. The Great Ridge is a shapely two-mile scarp that divides the Hope Valley from Edale, starting at Mam Tor and ending on the aforementioned Lose Hill. It is quite possibly one of the most famous hill walks in the country.
Most assaults on the ridge start from the Hope Valley side. Yours starts from the quieter Edale side, so expect a lovely, quiet climb up to the horizon at Mam Nick – then large numbers of humans from then on.
THE WOMAN ON THE HORSE
The Peak District became our first national park thanks to Ethel Haythornthwaite. An heiress to the Bassett’s empire (of Allsorts fame), Ethel Ward was taken to the Peak District after suffering depression following the death of her husband in the First World War. It proved the tonic she desperately needed, and she quickly became attracted to the idea of protecting the place from the threats of the fast-developing modern world.
Her cause was stoked even further when she met her second husband, access campaigner Gerald Haythornthwaite. Together they used family inheritances and other donations to buy up areas threatened with redevelopment. In the late 1940s Ethel seized on the burgeoning idea of national parks, and lobbied for the Peak District to be the first. She even rode on horseback round the potential boundary, conducting her own survey of land that in her view should become part of the park.
She was still arguing over parcels of land when Gerald pointed out that if they didn’t move soon, lobbying groups in the north would ensure the Lake District got the precious status first. She saw the big picture, and made haste to Westminster. On 17th April 1951 she got her wish. And the Lake District came second, being confirmed on 13th August.
Mam Tor is the first major objective. They call it the Shivering Mountain and as you start the ridge, you’ll see why. The east face of Mam Tor just isn’t there, having collapsed in a succession of landslips through the 20th century. In doing so, it consumed the old A625 Sheffield to Manchester road, which finally closed in 1979. You can see the remains of the road, chewed up and spat out like buckshot, down in the debris at the bottom of the slip.
There’s not much more to say about the Great Ridge other than that it’s gobsmacking. Across Barker Bank, over Hollins Cross, up Back Tor and on to Lose Hill; every step is a pleasure and a thrill. And off to your left is a fabulous retrospect of yesterday’s journey; there’s Kinder Scout, rearing up like a gritstone tsunami.
As promised, Lose Hill is your final summit of the trail – and there’s Win Hill opposite, where you might hear spectral Northumbrians spoiling for a fight. Aptly, Lose Hill’s topknot bears the name Ward’s Piece. George Herbert Bridges ‘Bert’ Ward was the founder of the Sheffield Clarion Ramblers and another of the crusading agitators who brought the need for national parks into the public eye.
There’s a long, languid descent to the little ▶
village below. You can either pause in the village, which comes fully loaded with pubs and tearooms, or continue along the sparkling River Noe to reach the station, and head for home.
It’s quite deliberate that we ended the Dark Peak Way where we did. We conceived this idea in March 2020, walked it in September, wrote these words in January. This is a walk that was planned, plotted and photographed as the nation battled through the most difficult year in modern memory, and came to treasure its open spaces more than ever.
That’s why it ends where it does. We could think of no better place to end a walk for 2021 than a little village called…
Hope.
JOURNEY’S END
We found Hope. Here’s wishing that this year, the whole nation will, too.