Francesca Donovan enjoys a secluded dip
STRUCK DOWN with a summer cold, I put bigger plans on the back burner and struck out for the Peak District hills. I mapped out a quick five miles to Three Shires Head and slung my swim stuff in my rucksack, hoping for a dose of cold water therapy.
I tramped along a quiet lane in the shadow of Shutlingsloe and past The Crag Inn – a quaint pub with hard-to-predict opening hours. Bypassing a number of pretty cottages and a red postbox, I left the lanes for the woodland. Thus began an easy ascent alongside drystone wall, treading carefully over the ancient tree roots. In no time, the route opened up into fields teeming with
life. Walking over a bridge to nowhere, I meandered upwards on public footpaths through farms scattered on the hillside.
Here, a few signs reading
‘No Camping’ and ‘No Dogs’ meant I was pleased to have left my four-legged friend at home. Not long to Three Shires Head now. The spot is beloved for the landmark of an old stone bridge that crosses over the River Dane where the counties of Staffordshire, Derbyshire and Cheshire meet. At Three Shires Head, the waterfall has lent a natural soundtrack to this packhorse route for centuries. I stopped a while to appreciate the scene, and take a drink just as the horses would have done in another time.
Constructed in the 18th Century, the bridge also had a reputation for lawlessness, with folks evading capture in their home counties by crossing over to the neighbouring shire. I like to imagine them taunting powerless constabulary members from just a few steps away. It was also a documented haunt of bare-knuckle fighting and a gang of illegal coin makers from nearby Flash.
Nowadays, it is a quintessentially peaceful Peak District scene. Both then and now, this pretty place represents the passing through of people and the warm welcome offered here.
With a few onlookers milling around and enjoying sandwiches, I opted to splash my face with the cool waters of Pannier’s Pool, knowing a more secluded spot waited. In the heat of the day, I put my head down through farmland and walked on until a ladder and another road crossing required my full attention.
The rolling hills rise on one side of Cumberland Clough and the sheer drop to the brook is flanked by mighty trees. You might be forgiven for mistaking this section of the route for one of the UK’s truly wild places. I made a mental note to scout out a plunge pool just about visible from the high footpath for a swim at a later date. But today
I had my heart set on a smaller, secluded waterfall. A quick glance as I passed The Crag Inn confirmed my suspicions that it was closed, and I carried on for the release I was really after, retracing my steps along the quiet lane.
The little Wildboarclough waterfall where I made my last pit stop is marked by a gap in a wooden fence on the side of the lane. It takes some manoeuvring through knee-high foliage to get to the pebbled beach that marks a safe point to enter the plunge pool. In the less abundant winter, it’s an easier spot. You’ll hear the rushing water as you pass alongside. The falls were not too strong after a dry few weeks but I was grateful for that as I swam against the flow, feeling my aches and pains alleviate a little. After more time spent floating on my back and admiring the mossy surroundings and leafy canopy above, I pulled my boots on and headed back to the car.
I felt miles better for this dose of the outdoors.