Church Mayfield to Froghall - 15 miles

Shortly beyond the church, a path leads off the tarmac and makes its way down through a field to within hearing distance of the water once more. Unheralded, the river flows at arms length now, beyond wire and fenceposts. The hills of its early miles are now long gone and instead of steep, chiselled valleys it makes its way through agricultural fields, full of rabbit-holes and cowpats. After the splendours that have gone before this perfectly pleasant, attractive countryside, dotted with splendid ash and elder trees, with big, blue skies above and rolling hills to either side is somehow deeply dispiriting. The river flows no more than 20-30 yards to your left but unseen and almost unheard until it tumbles noisily over a weir and comes fitfully into view once again. A couple of swans , elegant as ever, drift slowly downstream, dabbling as they go. There was a stillness in the air as I walked here one late June morning, partially down to the oppressive heat, but also to the absence of traffic - foot as much as vehicular. As on the previous stretch, I passed no-one for miles but what should have been a blessed relief after the overpopulated Dovedale felt wrong somehow - this is still a beautiful area, dull only in comparison to what has so recently been left behind, and should have had at least some seekers after beauty to tread its paths. Fleetingly, the path returns to the riverbank but in spite of what I just said I found myself increasingly yearning for the hills, and for the youthful river left behind.

At Toadhole Bridge there is a choice to be made, neither of which remains entirely true to the course of the river. You can continue on the southern bank to Calwich Abbey, or cross the footbridge and take the lane to Norbury. While Calwich Abbey may sound the more interesting - and historically it probably was - little now remains to be seen and the Norbury alternative promises a little more variety than a seemingly endless succession of grassy fields. It does involve some road walking, but of the quiet country lane type, rather than an A-road and it does bring you back to the river by way of a woodland walk of a type we haven’t seen on our route before. Across the bridge it is, then.

Once over the river, our steps are immediately directed uphill and away from it, before turning to the right when the road is attained. On that June day I had an early bonus when two buzzards rose on thermals high above, treating me to a wonderful display before a group of crows got a little nervous and began to “mob” them by climbing above and dropping to disturb their flight. I’ve seen it before, but never so clearly and for so long before the raptors realised that they were finding a losing battle and with a lazy flap of their wings turned tail and “ran”. I’d sat down on the stone parapet of a small bridge and sipped from my water bottle as the incident played out above me and was reluctant to leave initially but the exit of the buzzards meant that I could put it off no longer and so I returned the bottle to my rucksack and set off once more.

I hadn’t gone far before I was again distracted , this time by the presence of butterflies warming their wings on the hedge to my right. Lepidoptery is yet another of those subjects of which I must confess ignorance, so with reference book open alongside me I must take a stab at them being tortoiseshells. Again, they provided a happy distraction from the road walking. The hedge having forced itself on me via the butterflies, I paid it a little closer attention. Although it grew large and bushy, it was clear in places where it had been “laid”, months ago now at the very least, but the beech and roses and hawthorn had long overgrown it. Nettles below gave a pretty good clue as to where the butterflies laid their eggs and come autumn, the place would be a riot of hips and haws and blackberries and a haven for the birds that today busied themselves with the peanuts hanging in the cottage garden opposite. The destruction of thousands, if not millions of miles of hedges since the Second World War is a crying shame when you look at the amount of wildlife it supports but now is perhaps not the time to dwell on it.

No sooner had I taken notice of the hedge than it petered out, to be replaced by a dry-stone wall. As I turned my gaze towards the Weaver Hills beyond I caught sight of an old bridge between lane and river.  The Weavers are really the final fling of the Pennines and the views from their edge are quite spectacular, leading away into the middle distance and probably taking in a goodly part of the length of the Dove. In their shadow are the villages of Wootton , Ellastone and Norbury - reputedly the inspiration behind the setting of Hayslope, the village in George Eliot’s first novel, “Adam Bede”. It’s not a novel with which I am familiar and having been force-fed the same author‘s “Silas Marner “ for O-level English Literature, I have no desire to start reading it now, even knowing it was probably set a few miles from home - and you can call me a Philistine if you like, but I can’t recall a duller book.

Calwich Abbey over on the western bank also has its cultural associations. Built as a monastery on fertile soil near a constant source of water in the middle 1100s, it fell into private hands following the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII. Demolished in the 1700s, a mansion house was built on the site and quickly became renowned as the most fashionable place in the county. Handel visited, and some stories have it that he completed The Messiah whilst guest here. French philosopher and writer Jean-Jacques Rousseau also visited in order to converse in his native tongue with Bernard Granville, the owner at the time. The mansion was demolished in 1848 to allow for the building of new Jacobean house, which was in turn demolished in 1928. Now there are only ruins, which is sad but better that than an ugly building scarring the landscape.

The road suddenly drops into a wooded valley and some yards beyond the semi-detached Cliff Cottages a path dives into woodland to the right. The birdsong and the woodland smells - too long absent from the route, I realised - made the path , though muddy, a pleasure to tread. And after a while the Dove appears at the foot of a steep slope, tamed by weirs, giving the appearance of a canal rather than the fast-flowing free-spirit of yore. This is the outskirts of Norbury, probably once a part of the gardens of Norbury Manor - now in the hands of the National Trust and open to visitors by appointment. The path runs alongside the river beneath deciduous trees for a few hundred yards, with occasional little walls enhancing the impression that this is a tamed environment - even the swans seemed a little unnatural, as though on a willow pattern or a Victorian watercolour. There was a stillness here that the younger river would not have tolerated, that its energy would have disturbed. I found myself yearning for that disturbance.

Moments later, though, I emerged from the woodland and crossed a field to the most graceful bridge I had yet seen on the journey - more graceful, even, than Coldwall Bridge a few miles behind us now. If lookouts are posted to keep an eye open for motor traffic, it is the ideal venue for a game of pooh-sticks, wide enough to be a competition but narrow enough to be over quickly. It has to be admitted that it is a particularly childish endeavour, as befits its being named after a bear of very little brain, but it is an endeavour that I have engaged in for the last forty years and see no need to refrain from now. Indeed, although alone, I tossed a twig across the parapet and strode across the width of the bridge to watch it emerge downstream before completing the crossing back into Staffordshire - “The Creative County” as the welcoming road sign proudly advertises. As befits such a billing, in the field beyond two elderly ladies were stood at their easels, paintbrushes in hand. I have no idea if their work was any good , for although we exchanged pleasantries about the beauty of the day, the view, the architecture I was at the wrong angle to snatch a view of their efforts and too polite to ask for a look before I moved away southwards.

A couple of fields followed as the path makes its way to the rear of the Doveleys estate, a former manor house, now a garden centre with attendant “executive” housing development. I find it strange that the property is built so close to the waterside yet has no frontage onto it. A wall, a small cliff and woodland separate house from river - Doveleys, it seems, has turned its back and shunned the river from which it derives its name. It seems a pity. Shortly beyond, woodland once again swallows the path and it suddenly seems to split and disappear into dead ends and false beginnings, making route-finding difficult. Squirrels make merry in the trees above and on the path in front but take them out of the equation and with the trees crowding in on both sides this is the woodland of children’s nightmares - of Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf, of Snow White’s wicked stepmother, of Tolkien’s Mordor. I was glad that it was a sunny day outside.

As a result of the constant fraying of the path, I’m not sure that I emerged from the wood where the map indicated that I should - instead I felt that I was too low down for the public footpath, still being close to the river, rather than halfway up the hillside as anticipated. Climbing steeply uphill, I turned back to catch a breath by taking in the view and was delighted at what I saw. A wide bend in the river, with fields separated by hedges beyond and the focal point of a fly-fisherman intent on landing his fly in the precise position of the stream that he felt the fish were to be found. Instead of ploughing ahead on my uphill furrow, I took a moment to sit down and take a swig or two from my water-bottle, drinking in the view at the same time. There is something mesmerising about the way a fisherman casts his line, something metronomic. I have no real interest in fishing but could sit and watch a good angler for hours on end, although today it was mere minutes before I continued along my route.

It wasn’t by choice that I was leaving the confines of the valley and even heading to cross the Uttoxeter-Ashbourne road - there is no public right of way closer to the Dove than this for a mile or two and this point in the walk sees a change in our allegiance, from Dove to Churnet.  As I turned to the right and sought out the new watercourse, with the enormous JCB factory (and sympathetically landscaped grounds) in full view ahead, a heron rose in front of me and flew back in the direction from which I’d come. I took this as an omen - one of my favourite birds giving the change of route its blessing - and set off to cross a couple of fields to the village of Denstone. Before we arrive there, though, a quick word about the JCB factory. It is, undeniably, completely out of context, being set down in the middle of the countryside, a mile from the village of Rocester - an old Roman settlement at the junction of Churnet and Dove. Its impact is hugely reduced, though, by the landscaping. It is separated from the road by a series of lakes, with little islands or fountains or industrial sculptures of birds as focal points to draw the eyes away from the brutalism of the factory itself. Birds flock here, as do people, many of them enjoying a stroll around the water on well-made paths. If you must build a thriving international business in the middle of such attractive countryside, let this be a blueprint of how it should be done.

　

Historically, the Churnet has not been as clear or as clean a river as the Dove; the Dove having been a river of the hills and of agriculture, the Churnet of industry. This is not to suggest that it is urban and ugly - far from it - but that we shall see a different story, a different history, as we make our way north-west to that we have seen on our southerly journey. The first mile, though, is a counterpoint to the last - with grassy farmland sparsely populated by dairy cattle and the odd sheep - with a clearly defined footpath almost by-passing the village of Denstone.

A more modern, less pretty village than Norbury and Ellastone - albeit with some attractive buildings in the immediate vicinity of the church - Denstone is notable only for its college. Founded in 1873, originally to provide an education largely for sons of the Anglican clergy, it is now a well-respected private school for day pupils and boarders of both sexes. Notable old boys over the years have included Quentin Crisp, the “Naked Civil Servant”; England rugby international and commentator (and Gloucestershire cricketer) Alistair Hignell; and David Edwards, the first man to win a million on “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” who was a former physics teacher at the school. A fine looking gothic building - a Churnet speciality as we will see - the school is built on land donated by Sir Thomas Percival Heywood, who owned the mansion at Doveleys whose location we so recently admired. To view the school buildings, though, would require a detour from the route and a retracing of our steps - and as the site is private property, which means any views are taken from a distance, it is probably a detour too far.  Having by-passed the village, the footpath meets the Ellastone road at a bridge across the Churnet, beyond which is an arched gateway that was originally intended as the main entrance to Alton Towers - in its days as a magnificent country house, rather than the theme park that it is today. We shall hear more of the Towers in a few miles but for now our way lies to that railway line and the village of Alton itself.

The line here is the Churnet Valley Line, operated by the North Staffordshire Railway which was formed by Act of Parliament in 1846. The line ran from near Macclesfield to Uttoxeter, with branch lines to Stoke and Ashbourne. In common with so many other local lines, it fell foul of the Beeching Axe in the early 1960s, with the line from North Rode to Macclesfield being the first to go. By January 1965 passenger services between Leek and Uttoxeter had followed, with Leek Station finally closing in 1970. The section between Leekbrook and Kingsley is now privately operated as a tourist attraction, with the track from Kingsley to Oakamoor still laid and used for storage of locomotives and other rolling stock. The remainder of the line saw the track dismantled and the majority is now used as cycleway or footpath for leisure purposes. It therefore remains an asset to the population at large, and is indeed probably more used in its present incarnation than at any time since the invention of the internal combustion engine. It certainly provides a safe, dry and easy route alongside the river for a number of miles.

Unfortunately the first couple of miles sees the Churnet wend its way at a couple of hundred yards distance, beyond yet more grazing land but as the valley narrows it is forced into a closer proximity. Trees crowd in alongside the line, creating a shaded tunnel that is extremely pleasant on a hot day. Sarah and I have often parked at Oakamoor and cycled to the bridge at Denstone and back, relishing the cool it provides at the height of summer, although on colder autumnal days it can be dank and cloying. Woodland plants flourish in its damp micro-climate in springtime - ramsons, anemones and so on - whilst Himalayan balsam takes over into summertime. This rampant colonist, often enjoyed for its vaguely orchid-like pink flowers, is also greatly disliked for its more aggressive tendencies, choking the life from more sensitive native plants. I am also far from alone in finding their scent to be sickly sweet but, their seeds being “popped” distances of up to twelve feet and being borne by water, they are unavoidable on a walk such as this. Many wildlife trusts across the country organise “balsam-bashing” working parties, although I am unaware of any local initiatives.

We are into sandstone country now, the limestone having long been left behind and the area has long been home to a quarrying industry - the village of Hollington, in particular, being renowned as a provider of quality stone to projects such as the rebuilding of Coventry Cathedral. The magnificent ruins of Croxden Abbey, just a mile from the village and well-worth a visit, bear testament to the beauty of its colour and its resilience. The Raddle Inn within the village contains a carving of the masons’ brass square and compass in its stonework which is illustrative of the long history of stonemasonry in the village and its environs.

But it is architecture - and in particular an architect - that is behind the area’s fame today. The area has long been known as “Staffordshire’s Rhineland” because of the castellated buildings that dot the skyline high above the river valley but has also acquired a reputation as “Puginland” as a result of the number of local buildings designed by Augustus Welby Pugin, renowned as the architect behind the decorative aspects of the Palace of Westminster and the star of the Gothic Revival movement. His big break came at the age of twenty-five when he entered the employ of the 16^th Earl of Shrewsbury to work on the Alton Towers estate. He was by no means responsible for all of the buildings - the house was built in the early years of the nineteenth century at the behest of the 15^th Earl, the man largely responsible for the still magnificent gardens - but he did have a major role in the banqueting hall, the chapel, and the decoration of the existing buildings in the Gothic style that reflected his deeply-held Catholicism.

Growing up as a child in the 1970s, a trip to Alton Towers was a must for a every long six-week summer holiday, often with Nana and Granddad Pope in addition to Mum and Dad. In those days it was far from the licence to print money that is today’s theme park. The chief attraction in the way of rides was a cable car from the main building to the Chinese pagoda in the gardens, or a trip on the boating lake in a pedalo; there was a model railway (reputedly the world’s biggest) and sea-lions in a purpose built pool near the car-park; but above all, there were the gardens. For an eight year old boy today, the prospect of a trip to see some stately hall’s gardens would probably fill him with dread - gardens are boring, aren’t they - but the setting of a fairy glen, combined with sandstone caves, Chinese pagodas, grottoes, waterfalls, bridges, streams, stairways and statues is like manna from Heaven to the imagination. It is a garden that demands to be explored, rather than merely visited and - for the adults - there were exotic plants brought home by the best-known plant hunters of the Victorian era. “He made the desert smile” reads the dedication on the bust of the 15^th Earl that gazes down upon his creation, and if not the desert, he certainly made generations of children and adults alike do so.

It is pointless to pretend that I like the development of the property into today’s tourist attraction par excellence - but, then, I am far from its target market. I like the peace, quiet and solitude of the country surrounding and have a fear of the heights that so many of the rides depend upon for their thrills. Nonetheless, I have attended firework displays and pop concerts at the venue that would not have taken place but for the other “attractions” and am happy to acknowledge that the preservation of the gardens is hugely dependent upon them also - as is a great deal of local employment. So if the price for that peace, quiet and solitude in the surrounding spectacular countryside is the gathering of tourists to this particular honey pot, I can live with that.

Back to Pugin, though. In addition to his work in Westminster and at the Towers, he was responsible for many other local commissions. To the walker on the railway, the most obvious is the station below the village of Alton. Italianate in design, it would not look out of place in Portmerion - the William Clough Ellis designed village near Porthmadog on the Lleyn Peninsula of North Wales. Now a holiday cottage for hire, it is a beautiful building that has the one disadvantage of people like me walking past your back door throughout the day. Indeed many people, no doubt unaware of the fact that it is a private residence, clamber up onto the platform and peek through the windows expecting to see something out of the Golden Age of the Railway and instead seeing someone enjoying a lazy Sunday morning with the papers, whilst still in their dressing gown!

St Giles church, in the nearby market town of Cheadle, is reckoned to be Pugin’s masterpiece, but wonderful though it is, it lies off-route and outside of the scope of this book. Of more relevance to us is the Ramblers Retreat - a mile beyond Alton and a locally renowned tea-room and restaurant in a glorious location - and the castle, situated opposite the Towers within the village itself. The castle was originally built by a Norman family - the de Verduns - who were also responsible for the previously mentioned Croxden Abbey. They gained to right to build the castle by supporting Richard the Lionheart in his Crusades to the Holy Land. It can be seen that a religious fervour has been responsible for the creation of the majority of the notable buildings hereabouts, something that the present “castle” continues. The original castle was substantially rebuilt in the 15^th century and was badly damaged during the civil war, following which it fell into a degree of disrepair. Pugin redesigned it in 1847 in his by now familiar Gothic style. It has since served time as a private house, a convent and a Catholic boarding school - until its closure in 1989. Since 1996 it has returned to its religious use, serving as a Catholic Youth Centre for the Archdiocese of Birmingham.

One late September afternoon in the company of two good friends, Jan and Karen, I finally approached the castle from the village after many years of admiring it from the valley below and was pleasantly surprised. The village itself would be an absolute delight, were it not for the traffic passing through to and from the Towers which has always put me off in the past. But the area around the castle is an absolute gem - beautiful cottages, the wonderful St Peter’s church in its typical country churchyard, and the Catholic St John’s, yet another of Pugin’s designs. The castle itself, with its “green” copper roof is seen to best effect here, with its magnificent setting high above the valley easily appreciated. Oddly, a modern gym completes the courtyard and is, frankly, completely out of context with the medieval and Gothic that surround it. In a different setting it, too, may be a building to savour but here it is a surprising eyesore. And it may sound heretical in “Puginland” but I found the cottages and the less showy church of St Peter to be the most charming and “homely” parts of the village.

Our way into the village that afternoon had been alongside damson-filled gardens and by way of Toothill Rock, and it is that path which provides our exit today. A flat sandstone outcrop, Toothill gives awe inspiring views out over the Churnet and towards the Towers beyond. With the wind in the wrong direction, the sound of squealing can be heard from the more “thrilling” of the rides, but under normal circumstances it remains a peaceful and interesting spot. I stood here early one morning and watched a heron soar across the gorge, below eye level, and marvelled again at the grace of these beautiful birds. A squirrel clambered up a nearby tree and a robin trilled away to my left. The pressures of daily life were left behind as I sat, watched and listened. This was and remains a place to be savoured, and is possibly the view that gives rise to the Staffordshire Rhineland exaggeration, but we have a distance yet to cover and must drag ourselves away and drop steeply downhill to the riverside once more - or more specifically to the back garden of the Ramblers Retreat, a cup of coffee and one of their delicious desserts.

Once one of two gatehouses to Alton Towers itself and designed, of course, by Augustus Pugin, the Ramblers Retreat was almost derelict when purchased by Gary and Margaret Keeling in 1978. The story goes that once they had renovated the property as a family home, people would walk past and wonder whether they did tea or coffee in their attractive garden. After a while the couple gave into the inevitable and began to offer drinks and snacks from their lounge. Over the years, they extended their menu to full lunch and afternoon teas both inside and out and have developed a reputation for excellent meals that extends far and wide. The garden contains three or four summerhouses which walkers utilise in less clement weather, rather than take their muddy boots into the conservatory, and is dotted with tables that are frequented by plump little robins and sparrows keen to pick up dropped crumbs and titbits. I have taken ice-cream here on a scorching August Bank Holiday with Sarah, and coffee on a bitter cold February afternoon with Jan, when the temperature never once rose above freezing and have found it a delight on each occasion. And whilst I have yet to have a full meal here, it is an omission I am keen to remedy in the near future. And it is here that we leave Pugin Land behind us and move on to the next stage in our journey.

There are at least three ways in which we can take the route forward. A path immediately opposite the Ramblers takes you over Lords Bridge and back to the railway line and an easy way to Oakamoor a couple of miles along the valley floor. And while this remains true to the riverine nature of the path so far, there is no immediately obvious way forward without taking to a busy road out of the valley - there being no right of way alongside the river for a couple of miles and the railway becoming impassable at the blocked up Oakamoor Tunnel. A second option would be the Red Road - so named for the sandy, iron-rich soil it runs through. The road runs parallel to the railway, but on the opposite bank of the river, and was improved by Italian prisoners of war during World War II. They must have found the Italianate Ramblers Retreat a little reminder of home, and could certainly have found less attractive areas in which to while away wartime. But the Red Road option runs up against the same issue as the railway when it reaches Oakamoor, so a third alternative is required.

And to the side of the Ramblers paths wind away to Ousal Dale and The Ranger Youth Hostel or - even more enticingly - a path through Dimmingsdale (a forestry owned SSSI) to Hawksmoor (a National Trust owned nature reserve) and a pathway back to the river a few miles upstream. It is the first time in the journey that we have been far from the river for any period of time, and I initially sought to avoid the detour (leading to a little inadvertent trespassing on the Churnet Valley Railway’s land) but the path is really too good to miss and I realised that the journey would be the poorer for its omission. It is both beautiful and full of quirky historical interest and I enjoy it more on every occasion I walk it, so - although it is hard to tear yourself away from the Ramblers - let us pull on our rucksack and be off once more.

We have gone no more than a hundred yards from the garden before we pass The Old Smelting Mill - a private residence now, with ample grounds in front, flanked by public footpaths that must prevent any degree of privacy in the front garden, although the house itself is hidden away behind high walls. Immediately beyond is a long, thin millpond, now owned by the JCB Angling Club, with a view to a gloriously situated house beyond - the house that I would buy if I won the lottery. The Smelting Mill and the pond are the first signs of the industrialisation that once occupied this valley, inconceivable though it may be today. This part of the Churnet has long been associated with iron and copper mining - we have already seen the Red Road taking its name from the ore-rich rock - and Dimmingsdale in particular owes its current appearance in no small part to the industry. We shall see and learn more of this history as we trek uphill.

These days, though, the pond is an enchanting location. I am constantly reminded of the books of Tolkien as I
walk the area - not so fanciful, as he often visited the scout camp at Kibblestone, just outside Stone a few miles away. The films are wonderful, but are not as I imagined the valley of Rivendell or Lothlorien. No walk in the valley is complete without a period sat on the low retaining wall, enjoying the antics of the ducks and wildfowl on its still waters. On that freezing February afternoon that I spoke of in the previous chapter we watched mallards flying in to land on the surface, only to skid hopelessly along the two-inch thick ice that had formed over the previous couple of days; a fortnight earlier I had been delighted by the presence of a dabchick, or little grebe, diving and dabbling in the shallow water at the side. If kingfisher and heron are the two birds that most excite me on a river walk, then dabchick and dipper are not far behind. Both are ridiculously cute and can appear comical in the way they feed from the very bottom of the water - dippers walking along the bed of fast-flowing streams and shallow rivers; dabchicks using their relatively large webbed feet to push themselves down for unfeasibly long dives in streams, rivers, canals ponds and lakes. Clearly, its ownership by an angling club illustrates that there are also fish in the depths but it is for its birdlife that I retain such affection for this pond - that and the magnificent view enjoyed by my lottery-win house as the far end.

The house sits above Silver Stream, a shallow waterway that passes through a number of ponds dammed by one of the earls of Shrewsbury to turn the valley into his own personal Fairy Glen, and a break in the trees gives a sunny west-facing lawn the light it needs and a view from the conservatory to die for. The stream, and the ponds, means a decision needs to be made as to whether the left or right bank is taken. My preference is for the right bank - the left is a wide cart-track, an age-old route for travellers on horseback; the right a narrower, less-regimented and slightly lower pathway that requires a little more care about where feet are placed. But either route is full of interest and to be treasured. Indeed, there is an immediate feature on the left bank that should be seen, so we shall cross over to the right at a wooden footbridge some yards upstream.

One of the many beech trees on the left bank has a poppy wreath pinned or stapled to it - one that I understand is regularly replaced and cared for. Below it is nailed a laminated notice, reading as follows :

“Dedicated to RSM Tom Beardmore.

Born and bred in Cheadle and killed in Italy 3/2/44, aged 27, whilst clearing the “Gustav” German defensive line 10 miles south of Monte Cassino. He loved this place but sadly, like many more brave men, did not return home.

No known grave.”

The first occasion I saw the wreath would have been the day following his birthday and the poppies were bright
red and unaffected by the winter weather and the notice was attracting a great deal of attention. It is touching to think that 64 years after his death, RSM Beardmore is still remembered - maybe by the next generation, maybe the one after, but I can’t help feeling that he stands for all of those other brave men in addition to himself who did not return home. There are other memorials along the path - many, many benches dedicated to people who loved the valley - but it is this simple laminated notice explaining the presence of the wreath that most truly affected me. It does appear, though, that this valley inspires love in a great many people - there are no other stretches of the walk that seem to inspire such devotion in its visitors.

To either side of the stream, rocky sandstone outcrops with names such as Earl’s Rock, Painter’s Rock and Wright’s Rock peep through the undergrowth and lend a still more Tolkienesque feeling - one that is temporarily destroyed by the noise of laughing children as they fly above the stream on one of the many rope swings dotted along the way. Taking the opportunity to cross to the less-frequented right bank you notice a subtle change in the treescape - less beeches, more birch - and also in the vegetation. No doubt this is partly to do with the relative amount of sunlight received, and the differing quality of the soil, but is also down to the way in which the woodland was managed in the past. The right bank has been extensively coppiced in the past - cut down to trunk level every ten or twelve years to encourage regenerative growth in a number of smaller shoots - in order to provide fuel for the smelt mill or for the furnace higher up the valley. There are also a number of older oaks, primarily down in the damp ground next to the stream.

I couldn’t help but notice the number of trunks - especially the beeches - that had been disfigured by the carving of names and initials into them. It is difficult to see a difference between this rural habit and the wanton vandalism that is the painting of graffiti on urban walls. The only thing I can find to be said in its favour is that the scars will eventually heal over and the inscriptions disappear in the fullness of time. Another sign of the age of trees - and of the damp environment - is the fungi that appears on so many of the trunks, along with the abundant moss. There are so many different varieties that you can never be bored, which makes for a very slow pace to the walk as there is always something of interest to be looking at.

One bitter cold winter‘s afternoon, walking downhill though a Dimmingsdale dusted with a light covering of frost, I spotted a lesser spotted woodpecker here - the first time I’d seen one. There’s a pleasure in seeing a new bird for the first time, even though I don’t count myself as a birdwatcher particularly, and it was good to be able to point it out to Jan, who enjoys Dimmingsdale (and certainly The Ramblers) as much as I do. She’d spotted it at the same time as I had, but hadn’t dared to believe it was woodpecker, as it was her first woodpecker of any variety. We watched it for a few minutes as it flitted between tree-trunk and branches before it tired of entertaining us and disappeared. We also made our excuses and left - in our case heading for a fruit crumble and custard; the bird for a less fattening meal of beetle grubs and insect larvae. I know which menu I preferred.

The retaining wall to the next dam is clearly covered in algae - I have seen mallards dangling over the edge to dabble at its face and wondered at their willingness to put themselves in such an uncomfortable situation for what seem such meagre pickings. That algae must be delicious. But if you’re going to eat out in this way, you may as well find such a lovely spot in which to do so. The pond immediately above the dam is one of the biggest and is lined on one side by rhododendron bushes, which must be a delight when reflected in the water in late spring. Behind the bushes are a couple of dead trees, and while no-one wants to see plants die, there can be a gnarled quality, a starkness and an elegance about their trunks and branches that I find exceptionally photogenic. Sarah tells me that I take too many photos of single trees but I find them endlessly fascinating. I may not be able to identify trees with any degree of confidence or accuracy but I do love the shapes they create - dead or alive - and find joy in their company. Part of me feels that it is a pity we have avoided woodland for so long during the walk but we are certainly amply rewarded now.

On one of the trunks I noticed a blue disc bearing the legend “Sabrina Way Long Distance Route” and, while I was doing the walk and writing this book for my own pleasure more than anything, I was appalled to think that someone had got there before me - not quite Scott seeing the Norwegian flag above the South Pole and realising that Amundsen had beaten him to it, but a disappointment none the less - and was delighted to see on the internet that evening that it was primarily a route for horse riders, linking Hartington with a place called Great Barrington near Bourton on the Water in The Cotswolds over 200 miles away. Why these two are the start and finish, I’m unsure, but am glad that the route I am devising remains (at the very least) unofficial to date.

Moving higher up the valley the ground underfoot gets muddier, although it’s perhaps more leaf mould than mud. To the left, the ponds seem shallower and appear more natural now, reed-fringed and with a more “wild” feeling. They are linked by a stream that winds sinuously across its mini-floodplain and reminds me of Sher Brook on Cannock Chase where I spent a lot of time as a child. On the other side of the brook is a sign that reads Alton Abbey 2 miles - the Abbey turned into Alton Towers and it is a surprise as to how close we still are - the walk from the village seems to have taken an inordinately long time for two miles but is reflective of the sustained interest it has provided.

The valley changes subtly above the milestone, becoming more open, less tree-lined and the artificial nature of

the landscape becomes briefly more apparent in the channel that the stream runs through to the side of the pathway. I use the word artificial not in any sense of criticism, for I have enjoyed the last few miles as much as any since Dovedale, and understand that each of the landscapes we have passed through are - in their own way - artificial, having been influenced by agriculture, by conservation, by the National Trust, by the desire to create an angling paradise or a power source for mills. It is true, though, that this valley was created as though it were a garden and so can be regarded as “more” artificial perhaps than the others.

As it narrows into a more pronounced V-shape and passes below yet another pond - from which emerges the stream by way of a wonderful little waterfall - we emerge onto a metalled road once more. It’s a single track road, with grass growing down the middle, that serves only the tiny hamlet and assorted houses dotted along its sides as it wends its way down Stony Dale to Oakamoor - but it’s a road nonetheless and would lose some of its charm were it any less interesting than that which has gone before. Happily, I have only ever met two vehicles at this end and consider it an honorary footpath - despite its designation on a map.

The hamlet is known as Old Furnace and clearly takes its name from the location of an iron making furnace here at some stage in the dim and distant past. No traces remain now to be seen, but a Channel Four “Time Team” investigation a few years ago indicated that it was located beneath the row of cottages at the heart of the community. They also discovered some pottery that suggested a site here as early as the 10^th or 11^th century. The valley has always been a preferred site for industry, it seems, although it is now a rural idyll and without question my favourite settlement of the entire expedition. There is no pub, no shop, no post office, no church, no school - none of the facilities that you would look for in a village, you’d think, but it has peace, it has quiet, it has birdsong, it has history, it has charm, it has character. It is special. Please enjoy it and then follow the road uphill and away, leaving it just the way you found it. There are pleasures still to come - trust me.

The Silver Stream, which has accompanied us throughout our time in Dimmingsdale, issues from the last lake in the valley, situated on private ground beyond a renovated farmhouse named (imaginatively) Lake View. The road takes a turn to the right here and clambers away uphill. The depth of the road in comparison with the fields to either side suggests an ancient sunken lane - worn down by the amount of traffic it has received over the years - again indicative of the age and former importance of the hamlet. Hedges line the road to either side and with the height of the banks anyway, the views are minimal but there remains interest.

About a quarter of a mile uphill there lies a row of terraced cottages to the right, at ninety degrees to the road. A plaque on the end wall advises that Greendale Cottages were “homes of brass and copper workers, given to the National Trust in 1987 by Mrs M C Aldridge who loved Hawksmoor and the surrounding countryside.” This is the first mention of Hawksmoor, the nature reserve that lies over the main Cheadle-Oakamoor road at the top of the hill but I am intrigued by the name “Greendale” when we have seen just how influenced by industry the area has been.

A few yards further, to the left this time, is Greendale Farm. It seems an entirely unremarkable farmhouse - and indeed it is - but take a look back as you pass and you will see the door and its surrounds have been painted with scenes of mountain and woodland in a very similar fashion to the way in which narrow boats are decorated with pictures of castles and flowers. I can’t remember seeing a house decorated in this fashion before and although I don’t like the plaster eagle to one side of the door, or some of the other birds and animals dotted around the yard, I do like the pictures and the individuality that the pictures demonstrate. There is some thought and creativity that has gone into the idea, and they’re fun. It would look completely out of place on our door on an estate in a village on the edge of the Potteries, and would be ridiculous in some other locations but here in Greendale it works.

Up the hill and around the corner the Cheadle-Oakamoor road is reached and crossed, our way passing between two imposing gates immediately opposite the lane. But before walking through the gates and into the tiny car park beyond, take a few moments to read the plaque:

“These gates were erected to honour the memory of John Richard Beech Masefield, the founder of the Hawksmoor Nature Reserve. He was a great naturalist with an unrivalled knowledge of the fauna and flora of his native county. For forty-nine years he was a member, and four times president , of the North Staffs Field Club and was ever ready to help and encourage others in the study of Natural History.

1933”

The gates were officially inaugurated by another John Masefield, the cousin of the man to whom they are dedicated and - incidentally - Poet Laureate from 1930 to his death in 1967. The poet was responsible for such poems as Sea Fever (“I must go down to the sea again/To the sea and the ships and the sky”) and did indeed sail with the merchant navy in his younger days, mentioning his delight in flying fishes, porpoises and birds in his daily journal but it is JRB Masefield in whom I am most interested right now. (Fret not, though, we shall be meeting another Poet Laureate within a few short miles.)

JRB Masefield was born in 1850 in Cheadle and appears to have devoted his life to the study of nature. His family as a whole appears to have had a literary bent - in addition to the cousin a Charles John Beech Masefield, who I assume to be his brother, was a minor war poet and novelist who died of wounds received in France in 1915. “Our” Masefield seems to have combined this writing ability with his love of nature to enthuse others in the world about him. He appears to have loved all sorts of wildlife, from mammals to birds (there is a letter in the county records about the shooting of a white-tailed sea eagle at Shugborough Hall) to reptiles to insects, but what I find perhaps the most remarkable thing about him is the collection of land and freshwater snails from between 1883 and 1921 that is now held at the Potteries Museum - all 2084 of them. Let me just repeat that - 2084 land and freshwater snails collected over a 38 year period. I’m older than 38 (not by much) and would be flabbergasted if I’d seen that many snails, never mind actually collected them. (Unbelievably, two collectors have subsequently exceeded that total, but without the other strings to their bow that Masefield had - the first county record of a sand lizard, spotted on Cannock Chase in 1886 for example). Truly, his knowledge of the flora and fauna must have been unsurpassed. Surely a man as deserving of his memorial gates as would be his more famous cousin.

Beyond the gates we are on National Trust land, firstly in a tiny car park with a couple of benches and tables and information boards but we shall not tarry long here but instead turn right and follow a steeply descending track as it winds its way downhill. The track is the vehicular access for East Wall Farm, and misses out the wandering paths of Hawksmoor itself - detours can be taken, but the scenery is easily appreciated from the main track, which the Staffordshire Way also utilises at this point in its journey from Mow Cop to Kinver Edge in the south of the county. Our way again leads between a mixture of deciduous and coniferous trees, birch being particularly prevalent, and birdsong accompanies us on our stroll, but I’m afraid Hawksmoor lacks some of the magic that Dimmingsdale had in spades. Arriving at East Wall Farm we emerge from the trees and the initial view of the farm is a pleasing one. Unfortunately, as you pass it by - on an impressively muddy little footpath - the view is less pleasing and more untidy, with rusting abandoned vehicles and machinery being the abiding memory. A signpost - for the Staffordshire Way, admittedly - seems to indicate that our way ahead lies across another smallish millpond, but a more sensible solution is to by-pass to its right and set out across the fields beyond. We have regained the Churnet at this point, as it meanders across a wide floodplain, and the immediate surprise (although it shouldn’t be) is that we are now walking against the current rather than with it, upstream rather than down. This should really have been obvious - it’s been the case for a few miles now - but the river has never quite been our close companion until now and it subtly alters the mindset. We are now heading back uphill for the remainder of the trail!

On the far side of the river runs the Churnet Valley Railway - albeit not for passenger services here, only for the storage of old rolling stock during or prior to its renovation. As previously hinted, I have once inadvertently trespassed on the track here having misread the map and although it’s immeasurably drier underfoot than the glutinous mud of the footpath, it is far from easy walking, the bed of the track being stony and the sleepers wet and slippery. The wide open nature of the valley gives some feeling of the film “Stand By Me” in which four young boys in middle-America set out to find a rumoured dead body and use the rail track to find their way. It sounds a slightly morbid plot summary (and does come from a Stephen King short-story) but is instead warmly nostalgic and full of the joy of childhood friendships, long summer holidays and storytelling. There is one scene in particular that I love - the one in which the young narrator wakes early and wanders away from the basic little camp to the line itself where he finds himself yards from a young deer fawn. They stare at each other for a long few seconds, before the fawn turns away and strolls back into the trees and the boy returns to his friends, never saying a thing about those few precious moments he has shared with nature. I’m afraid I would have talked of it incessantly had I been the young boy - but it’s a special moment and to keep it secret was to keep it special. A lovely film and I was happy to be reminded of it - although I hoped not to find a dead body anywhere along the way.

We are back in open fields here, not dissimilar to the Ashbourne-Rocester stretch and my day was again
blessed with the presence of buzzards, as it had been on the earlier section. My attention was caught by the sound of mewing from the sky above and I raised my eyes to see not one or two, but six gloriously soaring birds. Their “mewing” is a touch incongruous - a curiously unthreatening noise from these masters of the skies - but it is the way the cries are described in all of the books I have read. There were obviously some good thermals coming from the woods opposite and I sat on one of the stiles linking two fields and observed their circling for a quarter of an hour or so, before watching them come out of formation and sail over my head to land on a tree in the woods behind. There is a Van Morrison line that summed up the moments perfectly - “We stood enraptured by the silence/As the birds sang their heavenly song” - as I turned my eyes from the buzzards’ landing back to the way ahead, just in time to spot a curlew, its down turned beak perfectly in profile as it crossed the valley in the opposite direction no more than fifteen or twenty yards in front of me. There was, to be honest, little in the way of “heavenly song” but the silence and the rapture were certainly present. Moments like this are what we walk for, are they not?

I was brought back to earth with a jolt, though, by the sound of gunshots ahead of me. Someone was either out looking for something for the pot for lunch or - and I hope that this is not the case - trying to control the bird population. Birds of prey have been having a surge in population again after the persecution of the 50s, 60s and 70s when they were routinely poisoned and also suffered from the effects of DDT thinning their eggshells, leading to the near-extinction of many species. Happily this trend has been reversed, but not to universal approval, and the occasional prosecution for poisoning can only serve to highlight this. As I heard no more shots, I put it down to someone who’d got their rabbit stew sorted and put it to the back of my mind.

The next half-mile or so is perhaps the muddiest of the whole route, being immediately alongside the water on fields that are an obvious floodplain and maintain a high water-table. The fact that the pathway is constricted in places by gorse, barbed wire and fencing means that everyone who passes this way puts their feet in the same places and only adds to the mire. There will be no clean boots by the time we reach Froghall. If this gives the impression that the path is neglected I can only apologise, for the way lies across a wooden footbridge of obviously recent vintage - it has yet to acquire that patina of age that mosses and lichens provide. The few yards beyond, as the path crosses the railway line and works its way uphill, are still muddier than what has gone before and there is no alternative but to keep moving in the hope that you sink no deeper than the top of your boots - if you pause for just a second, you will most assuredly do so!

A quarter of mile of walking parallel to but slightly above the track and a gate gives way to a crossing over the tracks and ever-improving conditions underfoot. It’s not the prettiest of entrances to a village we shall see - there’s a sewage farm, a car graveyard and body shop to admire before the back of The Railway Inn gives way to the main Cheadle-Ashbourne road. A right turn, and the station itself is reached no more than twenty yards downhill. This is Kingsley and Froghall station, the southern terminus of the modern Churnet Valley Railway - our paths coincide for the few miles to Cheddleton so I shall not dwell on its history for now. Only to say that the station, reopened in 2003 by Pete Waterman (writer/producer of I Should Be So Lucky and numerous other hits for Kylie, Jason Donovan, Rick Astley and others as part of the Stock-Aitken-Waterman “Hit Factory” in the late 80s) is beautifully restored, with posters advertising day trips to Burslem and other tourist attractions and is the possessor of another fine tea-shop. It’s not the Ramblers Retreat, but enjoy a slice of cake here. You’ll have earned it and as it helps to support the railway you can feel you’re doing your bit for a charity at the same time.

　

Froghall to Rushton Spencer - 15 miles

I mentioned earlier that the Churnet has always been seen as a river of industry and we have already seen some evidence of this at the foot of Dimmingsdale and at Old Furnace, but here at Froghall we can see a more recent example in the Thomas Bolton copper works currently undergoing demolition. Initially the “overflow” factory to the main site in Oakamoor, the works were built in the late 19^th century and were for many years responsible for a large part of the employment within the middle part of the valley. The Oakamoor factory was renowned for making the first transatlantic telegraph wire, laid in 1858 by Brunel’s Great Eastern steamship, but is long since demolished, while controversy reigns locally about the fate of the Froghall site - a proposed housing development having caused a particular outcry in this Moorlands community. There is no doubt that it is currently a complete eyesore, and there is no easy answer about its future. Its past, though, was a glorious one and I certainly believe that any future should have some reference to that history.

A few yards away is a much smaller piece of industrial history at Froghall Basin, where a small visitor centre tells something of the history of the canal movement and of the Caldon Canal in particular. It is here that the canal terminates nowadays, the old Uttoxeter Canal having been filled in and the railway line that we have followed from Denstone having been built over it during the 1850s. I like the idea of the layering of the route here, a palimpsest created over the course of time with the ancient route of the river having dictated the line of the canal, in turn superseded by rail and so soon returned to the walking route it has no doubt been for time immemorial. In such a small island it is inevitable that the land has had many incarnations, being used and used again for so many different purposes and leaving the merest glimpses for us to remember them by.

The canal leaves the basin by way of the 76 yard Froghall Tunnel, making its way below the Ipstones road and

emerging alongside the rear of the Boltons site. It is here that our path joins the canal for a while, the river running a few yards lower at the far side of the factory and the railway line between the two. There are private moorings on the far bank but it is hard to understand why anyone would choose to use them, the view being frankly ugly - post-industrial grime and dereliction at its worst. There are signs that people have made an effort to brighten their surroundings, with little areas of planting of what appear to be both flowers and vegetables, but to me they are fighting a losing battle - there are infinitely preferable sites within just a few hundred yards and I can only assume that the easy access to motor transport is the dictating factor in their choice of location.

The towpath follows the left hand bank initially, the wooded right hand bank sloping sharply uphill and home to thousands upon thousands of bluebells in spring - as is the higher ridge beyond the river to our left. We haven’t gone far before we come across two distinctive mileposts, one a simple stone marker with a chiselled number 1 on one side and a 16 on the other, indicating that it is the first marker and is 16 miles from Etruria basin and the junction with the Trent and Mersey; the second is of metal and is inscribed Etruria 16/Uttoxeter 14, and “This milepost was replaced by The Caldon Canal Society, sponsored by Midland Bank plc and unveiled by The Right Honourable The Earl Ferrers, Minister of State for Agriculture, Food and Fisheries on Monday 23^rd May 1983. Plaque by R Welch, Cotes Heath.” On the opposite bank is a small clump of daffodils (at least in spring) and a memorial plaque, only able to be read by those walking with binoculars or those mooring a narrowboat alongside. Everywhere along this valley people are remembered at the places they have loved.

Just beyond a curve in the canal, set at such an angle that it’s hard to believe any boat - however narrow - could pass through, is the elegant and strangely named Cherry Eye Bridge. It apparently takes its name from the red eyes of the local miners making their way home after a long shift underground and has an unusually shaped profile, an almost ecclesiastical arch rather than the more normal half-circle. A path drops down to the left just before the bridge, crosses the river by a little wooden footbridge and clambers up the steep hill beyond , gaining a brief respite at the little minor road that is nearly overwhelmed by bluebells in late April/early May. Immediately opposite sits the Kingsley Falconry Centre, home to a variety of birds of prey from Britain and abroad and well worth a visit - I well remember a visit there with work colleagues and the delight of the young children as they held an eagle on their outstretched wrists, and my delight as a little owl perched itself on my shoulder, its sharp talons being easily felt though thick fleece, shirt and T-shirt. Ironically, this is yet another hotspot if you are fond of buzzards - if Wolfscote was Herondale, perhaps the Churnet is Buzzard Valley.

Past Cherry Eye Bridge the canal makes further wide curves - unusually for a canal there are few straight lines at this point - whilst the railway line runs closer alongside now, giving the occasional view of a diesel train or (on high days and holidays) a steam locomotive. The towpath crosses over to the far bank by way of another attractive bridge and your attention is immediately caught by a strange feature to your right. Trickle Ridge is a rock formation akin to the stalactites you see in caves, formed by the gradual accretion of minerals deposited by the action of water as it trickles down the steep bank. My first thought on seeing it was that it was a large tree root, but closer inspection dispelled that impression. The trickle of water has created a little groove in the rock and a tiny stream constantly runs down it, no doubt adding infinitesimally small deposits to what is already a quite fascinating natural water feature. I was enchanted by the ridge when I first saw it and find it still more wonderful with each visit. There is a magic in the air here.

Beyond Trickle Ridge is the RSPB owned Booth’s Wood and opposite the wonderfully restored Smithy Cottage. Immediately alongside, the old flint mill is undergoing a similar restoration, being converted from previously derelict buildings into unique living accommodation. It must be an unusual spot to live - vehicular access is limited to a single track road servicing the few buildings so there is no passing traffic, but there is a constant flow of pedestrians and a tourist attraction railway line runs within twenty yards of the rear of your property. As with so many attractive properties I pass in the course of my wanderings, I am left with the thought of what you’d do if you suddenly realised in the middle of a dark and stormy winter’s evening that you were out of milk. Immediately beyond the flint mill is the first lock we have come across - Lock Number 17 - beyond which the canal seems to narrow still further. Having grown up with the Trent and Mersey at the foot of our garden, I am always surprised by the width of the channel here (or more accurately, the lack of width). It’s hard to believe, again, that even the narrowest of narrow boats can have any room to spare.

Another lonely house on the right is served by that little single track road, home to Consall Forge Pottery and - from the look of a sticker in a window - a Sheffield Wednesday supporter. A quick visit to the website explains the sticker - Nick Williams was born in Barnsley in 1955 and came to North Staffordshire in 1975 when he did a degree course in Hand Ceramics at the then North Staffs Polytechnic. His present studio has been open since 2000 and “There is a peace and tranquillity about the place which I mirror in the quiet colours and textures of my work.” I have never yet had the chance to inspect that work, other than on the internet, but always look out to see if the studio is open when I pass - one of these days it will be.

It isn’t long now until we reach the station cottages, signal box and Consall Station itself. Like Froghall, the station was opened by Pete Waterman, this time in March 2002. The station buildings themselves are on the far bank, but the most noteworthy feature is the waiting room for the nearside line, where there is so little room that the wooden shelter is suspended above the canal itself.

For a tiny little hamlet, there is boundless interest in Consall. The station - although only recently rebuilt - is like something from the Railway Children; the Black Lion pub is situated seemingly miles from anywhere but is well-known to locals; there are footpaths to Consall Nature Reserve and to Belmont Pools; and most remarkably of all perhaps, the river separates itself from the canal, with which it has shared a bed for the previous mile or so - a mile or so we have yet to see. The towpath passes beneath the railway, across the canal and then above the river as the trees and valley open up a little. The river throws itself over an impressive weir and makes its way off on its solitary journey once more; the canal shrugs and moves away to the left and the route we have just traversed. Beyond the bridge lie some particularly impressive limekilns, remnant of a time when Consall was a busy little hive of industry - the coppiced woods around would have provided ample fuel for the kilns which would have been used to produce lime for mortar and for soil improvement. There are a couple of other kilns further upstream, and the sites of many others are dotted around the woodland hereabouts. A seat covered in pottery mosaics sits in front of the kilns, made by children from Ipstones and local artist Philip Hardaker - a contemporary of Nick Williams from North Staffs Poly. The ceramic mosaic comprises “found” shards of pottery along with the children’s own decorated tiles, with pictures of local plants and wildlife - I spotted chaffinch and kingfisher, tawny owl, purple hairstreak butterfly, heron and holly amongst others, and - in recognition of the proximity of The Black Lion - an injunction to “Drink and be happy”. I presume that the latter is a message from Mr Hardaker rather than one of the more precocious youngsters

Now that the canal and river share the same bed, the channel is wider than has been the case before, and we have a current to walk against once more. And with that width and a slightly less regimented riverbank there are plenty of perches for the most spectacularly colourful of Britain’s birds to take advantage of. It is, of course, the kingfisher - a bird I have loved almost since I knew there were birds. We had a couple on the canal at the foot of the garden, until one was found dead on next door’s lawn having been mauled by one of the local cats - I’ve had a problem with felines ever since. Most years I’ll give Mum a birthday card with a picture of a kingfisher on it; most year’s I’ll get one back, unless it’s got a cricket scene instead - they are equally acceptable. The irony is that they are pretty elusive creatures, pretty difficult to see, and certainly difficult to observe for any period of time, being gone in a flash of iridescent blue and the blink of an eye. But one of the places that I have seen them, that I have enjoyed watching them for minutes on end, is this reach of the Churnet. Early one spring morning, the heat already threatening to become overpowering, I paused for a drink here when my eyes were caught by a movement on the far bank. I glanced over to see a pair of them perched on a little branch overhanging the water. As I watched, one of them plunged into the slow-flowing river, reappearing a moment later with a little fish which it proceeded to offer to its mate and I realised I had stumbled across a courtship ritual - the male demonstrating just how well he could provide for his prospective family if the female chose to pursue the relationship. It seemed I had timed things perfectly , for the offer was accepted and - after a few more gifts, just to make sure - the two of them flew off to start their life together. I felt privileged to have seen it.

Beyond Kingfisher Reach it becomes apparent that the valley has opened out a little, become wider and shallower. The railway is now on the far side and the distance between river and rail grows all the time, with scrubland, reeds and open fields now separating the two. The fields in particular are home to vast numbers of Canada geese, their honking catching the breeze and audible for miles around. Herons and pheasants are also common here and with the occasional lapwing the stretch is a haven for birdlife. After a while another lock indicates the parting of the ways between canal and river - more accurately, the meeting of the ways but with our path climbing upstream it feels like a parting.

The towpath now forms the barrier between the two and the walk is once again alongside still waters . It’s not

quite as interesting as the previous mile, but there is always something to look at, whether it be the ancient ivy-covered trees, the geese, the occasional swan or the odd narrowboat chugging along. More modern boats are all very well - our neighbours in Rugeley had a cruiser moored at the bottom of the garden - but there is nothing better than a proper, old-fashioned narrowboat to fully realise the timelessness of the waterway. The painted panels; the variety of names - from the “watery” themed, to the avian, to the kitsch; the decorations - all make them so much more personal than all forms of road transport and so much more “human”. The occupants of the “cockpit” are almost universally cheerful and friendly and eager to exchange a few words and the slower pace of travel makes it possible. It’s good to feel that the journey is being shared - albeit only for a short distance.

Bridge 47A is soon reached, and is unique on this stretch of the canal in being a raised, drawbridge-style affair, built to replicate the original design in 1999 by BWB of Northwich. It can only be raised or lowered from the far bank, and I’m unsure quite why it is designed in such a fashion, what in particular it serves and just who utilises the crossing. It is hardly Tower Bridge but is an interesting addition to the waterside architecture - although I prefer the lock and traditional stone bridge a little nearer to Cheddleton, even though the water treatment works alongside is responsible for some fairly noxious smells at the height of summer.

From the lock it is no more than a few minutes easy stroll until Cheddleton Station is reached. Another splendid example of railway architecture, this is the genuine article, the original, apparently saved by the intervention of Norman Hancock, a local councillor who - the story goes - saw demolition vehicles alongside the station as he passed by one morning in 1974. He promptly turned around and placed his vehicle between the building and the men who had come to knock it down. His actions, however unorthodox, set in train the ultimately successful campaign to save the station and (eventually) the facility that remains to this day. A plaque on the station records people’s gratitude for those actions - and also records the help provided in the campaign by then Poet Laureate and well-known railway-lover, John Betjeman (I promised you a second Poet Laureate when we met John Masefield back at Hawksmoor - here he is!)

On more than one occasion I’ve come across a narrowboat named “Willowmoor” here, a boat owned by local artist Michelle Martin who uses it as a floating studio. Although she lives most of the time on land, she cruises the area exhibiting her work - primarily paintings and hand-made paper - and teaching. In the evenings she is also a singer-songwriter. I’ve never heard her sing, but do like her artwork - there’s nothing particularly extraordinary but she takes so much of nature as her subject matter that I can find much to enjoy. Part of me is also jealous of her lifestyle, which seems a wonderfully romantic way of making a living. If you get the chance to board “Willowmoor”, take it - and take the chance to purchase a painting, a print or a postcard and support a local artist.

　

Beyond Cheddleton station we continue to follow the canal towpath, although the presence of an industrial estate to the right provides a counterpoint to the beginning of this stretch and the presence of Boltons factory there. The estate is separated from the canal by an ugly, spiked steel fence whilst opposite all is sylvan loveliness - although this is somewhat deceptive, for above and beyond the trees lies one of the new housing estates that threaten to overwhelm the resources of this former strip settlement on the main Leek-Cheadle road. A couple of locks follow closely upon one another - by the second is a sign reading “The Caldon Canal was re-opened to navigation on 28 September 1974 by Mr G Oxford on behalf of Staffordshire County Council, and by Councillor H Smallwood OBE, Lord Mayor of Stoke on Trent, in the presence of Sir Frank Price, chairman of British Waterways Board.” It’s interesting to note that even while the railway was in seemingly terminal decline, its predecessor as a form of transport was showing signs of life once more, after having been on life-support for so many years.

A few more yards and we see more signs of the restoration work undertaken by British Waterways Board. The

Old Dock House was once “The first real home of Methodism in Cheddleton. Sunday Services were held here for several years from the 1780s.” Restoration took place in 1985 and it now contains laundry facilities for those cruising the canal.. This is typical of the of this next stretch - interest is sustained by industrial relics as much as by the beauty of the countryside, although that is also here in spades. Beneath the bridge carrying the A520 we find the Cheddleton Flint Mill, which is open to the general public at weekends and on odd occasions during the week, “dependent upon the availability of volunteers.” A mill has existed on the site since at least 1253, although it was only converted to a flint mill during the late 1700s. The ground flint was used in the manufacture of certain earthenware being produced in The Potteries just ten miles distant. Canal transport was clearly important and the crane used for lifting to and from narrow boat and mill remains in place - though this is clearly of a later date than the 1700s. The mill itself is situated well below canal level, which demonstrates that the Churnet is back and close at hand, the running water driving the massive water wheel that generated the power to drive the millstones.

Despite the river’s presence, our way continues alongside the canal. The valley here is often covered in flood water, and the reeds and rushes are illustrative of just how damp the ground remains, even at the height of summer. High on the far bank can be seen the water tower of the former St Edwards Hospital, a mental asylum that closed down at the end of the twentieth century and has been converted into executive housing throughout the extensive landscaped grounds - the water tower itself housing luxury apartments. Again, the development seems to place an extra strain on the minimal resources within Cheddleton but is perhaps far enough out of the village to look towards Leekbrook and Leek itself for its wants and needs.

The towpath is fringed with wild roses and elderflower and is a joy to walk. Occasionally a gap in the vegetation gives a tantalising glimpse of the old railway line on its way to Stoke, overgrown now although there are constant rumours of plans to reopen the line all the way to the quarries at Caldon Lowe on the road between Leek and Ashbourne. A pathway runs alongside the tracks, although how official this is must be open to question. Anyway, with the canal so close why would you want to tramp along the loose stones of the old track bed? It was an oppressively hot June afternoon when I passed this way last, and a light breeze brought brief respite from the heat but then, in dropping, exaggerated the temperature still further. I heard a rustle in the trees above and glanced up, just in time to see a grey squirrel make the leap from one oak to another and in doing so cross from one bank to the other - a distance of some ten or twelve yards, had the branches not overhung so far. Having gained the safety of the far side without so much as a wobble, he paused and looked back at me as though expecting applause for his daring and dexterity. I obliged and in doing so seemed to startle the creature, for he quickly scampered along the bough and up the trunk to safety.

A few yards further and a house came into view on the right - the first since the Flint Mill a mile or more previously. As it came closer there appeared two more on the bank to the left - wonderfully situated, with lovely gardens and narrow boat moorings at the foot of the glorious gardens. Deep Hayes Country Park is just yards beyond and a couple of miles further is Endon, and my current cricket club but we shall be leaving the canal here - albeit briefly - and must therefore leave the delights of Deep Hayes, Hazlehurst Aqueduct, Denford and places west for another day. Our way leads up and over the railway bridge (the house on the right was Station House - hard to believe that such a rural hamlet had anything like enough of a population to merit a station but clearly it did) and follows the minor road uphill towards the village of Longsdon. We have gone no further than a couple of hundred yards, though, before we drop down to another towpath and duck beneath the bridge and away to the right. On that blazing June afternoon sheep sheltered in the shade of the low drystone wall in the garden alongside - I felt tempted to join them but was lured by the promise of dappled shade on the towpath.

This is the Leek arm of the Caldon Canal - the town felt hard done by at being by-passed by the main route and so petitioned for the feeder (which we shall follow to Rudyard and her reservoir) to be made navigable and bring some of the burgeoning trade their way. However the navigation stopped at Leek and when the waterway fell into disuse it was partially filled in - now coming to a halt a half mile short of the town centre at the edge of an ugly modern industrial estate. As such it is now little used by boats, who must turn around and return to the main branch or moor in a frankly unprepossessing site near a scrap metal yard if they are to visit the gem of a market town that is the Queen of the Moorlands. It is, though, the loss of the modern boatman as the two and a half mile stretch of the Leek arm is a delight - at least until you reach its terminus.

Initially the far bank is made up of gardens sweeping down from elegant villas to the canal side - some are

neglected, some magnificent (and this applies equally to villas and gardens). I almost prefer the feeling of wildness that the neglected gardens give, the feeling of adventure that you would get as a child exploring outside as the adults have grown-up conversations inside. I can also appreciate why the lawns might be left to run wild - they are, by and large, enormous and would take an eternity to mow. After a few hundred yards there is a little bridge over an overflow, dry on this hottest of days, so I sat down and dangled my feet over the edge, taking pleasure in the pervasive peace and quiet. As I did so a flock of twenty Canada geese drifted through the bridge to my right. Some clearly still little more than goslings they were absolutely silent, motionless even, just drifting on the water’s gentle flow. Geese in this number can be intimidating on occasion, especially out of the water when they appear more aggressive, no doubt feeling more threatened when out of their own environment, but on this occasion they added a charm to an already pleasant scene - with water, and bridge, and waterbirds it could almost have been an illustration from a Chinese willow-pattern. Their passing took minutes, so gentle the current, and it was with reluctance that I stood up once more and pushed on - immediately coming across another fourteen of them on the other side of the bridge.

Beyond the gardens the far bank is populated by large rhododendron bushes and magnificent tall pine trees and the canal moves in wide sweeping bends, making a leisurely progress towards the market town, with the view to the right bringing the water-tower of Cheddleton back into view - take a look at the map and it is clear how far the canal journeys to maintain the same contour and prevent the need for yet more locks, and how far it is necessary to walk to make a mile’s progress as the crow flies.

The canal soon opens out as it turns sharply right and reaches the Leek Tunnel Pool. A solitary narrow boat was moored on the near bank, the doors and windows open to reveal The Beatles belting out “The Things We Said Today” from what I assume was a CD player. Being The Beatles, it didn’t really disturb the somnolent atmosphere in the way that other music may have done. Swans still dabbled, cattle paddled in the cooling shallows of the far bank, and sand martins flew low over the water in search of insects. It seemed to me an idyllic place to moor and I found myself beginning to yearn for a narrow boat just for the pleasure of whiling away afternoons like this with a good book and The Beatles in such a location. It was then that I remembered just how depressing such a prospect appeared when such boats passed the foot of our garden on dank, dark, rainy days in my seventies childhood and I decided I was happier with a home with four walls and a fully functioning flush toilet and realised I ought to be getting on as the occupants were probably finding my loitering a little suspicious.

The way out of the pool is by the tunnel if afloat, by a steep ascent up a flight of steps on foot. It was recently renovated, by the expedient of removing all of the soil above it, doing the necessary repair work, and then replacing the soil on top. It seems simple when put like that, but when you realise how much soil and rock must have been involved it is clear that this was quite an undertaking. Now, you wouldn’t know it had been done, so natural does the slope appear. At the top of the bank a track to the left leads to Ladderedge, the main road into Leek from the Potteries and one of the first roads to close in snowy conditions, but our way leads straight ahead - having first enjoyed the views of Ramshaw Rocks and The Roaches, clearly visible beyond the town today, glowering menacingly beyond in mist or rain.

The last few hundred yards before Leek are often enjoyed in the company of sand martins, who have hollowed out their own little community in the sandy banks on the far side of the water. A bullfinch puffed up its chest as I ambled along on that June afternoon and I was pleased to see one of my favourite, but rarely seen finches. This stretch of the walk may look a little dull on the map, but I had enjoyed the afternoon enormously - aided no doubt by the weather and the fact that I was away from work, but also by the fact that I kept my eyes and ears open and was alive to my surroundings, rather than plodding on with the determination to put miles beneath my belt.

Once again, as a town or village approaches, industry intrudes upon the rural scene. “Welcome to Leek” says the sign, bit the canal peters out as the feeder from Rudyard joins it, and the Churnet (briefly alongside the canal once more) ignores the industrial estate beyond the sign and heads off across country, giving Leek itself a miss - as should we, if staying true to the route, but Leek is really too good to miss, so a detour here comes with official approval. There is a signposted route from the bridge but it threads its way between industrial units and overhanging metal fences before tiptoeing behind Morrisons, so perhaps better to accept that this is the most urban part of the whole journey, bite the bullet and walk up to the A53 and follow it uphill to the town centre. Enjoy it - we’ll meet back here later.

　

　

Leek styles itself the Queen of the Moorlands and is now recognised as a typical market town, with its annual agricultural show and farmers’ market, but it is much more than that. Few small market towns are home to two building societies - the massive Britannia and the more local Leek United; few small market towns are so indebted to large industry, as Leek is to its many mills; and few market towns are so much a part of the arts and crafts movement that there are regular guided walks taking in the legacy of such as William Morris and Thomas Wardle.

From The Roaches, which tower above the town to the north, Leek is a town of spires and towers, with churches and war memorials and the Nicholson Institute (now the town’s library) dominating the skyline. The Nicholson Institute in particular is a wonderful building, dating back to the 1880s, with a glorious (and recently restored) Queen Anne style copper dome. The building, like so many in Leek, was designed by the local architects Sugden and Sons - they were also responsible for a couple of churches, the cottage hospital and the former Leek station. Such was the repute of the Institute that Oscar Wilde gave a lecture here in 1885 and works from the V & A Museum were displayed. Initially the building contained a free public library, an art gallery and a museum. Subsequently the Leek School of Science and Technology and a School of Art joined them. It remains a library and college of further education - Sarah attended there instead of Sixth Form - and is very much a living building.

From the main road the view of the whole property is obscured by a lovely seventeenth century building known

as Greystones. Until recently this was one of the best tea-rooms in the country, regularly winning awards both local and national, but is now a private house once more. The story goes that William Morris campaigned to prevent its demolition - possibly when the Nicholson Institute was being mooted - and hence began the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, one of the forerunners to The National Trust. There are little Arts and Crafts touches even now - the gates having “green men” and oak leaves entwined within them - which reflect Morris’s obsessions.

Morris was born in 1834 in Walthamstow, East London. Educated at Marlborough and Oxford University, he befriended Edward Burne-Jones - later a well-known artist and designer. Amongst other subjects he studied theology, architecture and poetry - becoming interested in a movement away from the industrial processes and a return to the hand-made. With Burne-Jones and the poet/artist Dante Gabriel Rosetti he formed a design partnership, to which Morris primarily contributed repeating patterns for wallpaper, textiles, tapestries and tiles. He visited Leek many times during the 1870s due to his work with Thomas Wardle, whose family owned silk mills in the town. The two of them worked to perfect a system of vegetable dyes on silk, rather than use the chemical processes popular elsewhere. During his visits Morris became active within the town, leaving the Leek Embroidery School as a legacy, along with an influence on many buildings around the town.

The church of St Edward The Confessor is a couple of hundred yards from the Institute. A Mediaeval church, it is well-known as being the best viewpoint from which to see Leek’s famous double sunset in the days either side of the summer equinox. The sun initially sets behind Gun Hill, before re-emerging some 8-10 minutes later at the other side of the hill, before setting again, this time for good - a sight best seen from the churchyard. Also within the churchyard are graves of French prisoners of war, located in the town during the Napoleonic Wars. The majority of them were housed in a street just yards away from the church - a part of town still known as “Petty France”. The church itself easily merits a visit but also acts as a showpiece for some of the Arts and Crafts movement - a Morris tapestry hangs with many others by Lady Elizabeth Wardle, Thomas’s wife and there is a magnificent stained glass window designed by Burne-Jones along with others by another member of the movement, G F Bodley.

A few yards further on, beyond Petty France is the old High School, one of the oldest buildings in Leek and now the headquarters of the town’s Scout troop. Opposite stands the Friends Meeting House - the local home of the Quaker religion. It dates from the 17^th century and has been a Quaker church for much of the intervening period, but during the late 1800s and early 1900s was known as the William Morris Labour Church - reflective of both the role Morris played in the rise of the British Labour Party and his Christian faith.

St Edward Street, running at 90° to Church Street, contains buildings of so many different styles - Georgian, Queen Anne, Victorian, mock Tudor - that it difficult to keep track. At the foot of the street (from where a right turn will return us back to the “official” route) there are some lovely almshouses that provide yet more architectural interest. Two hundred yards up the road opposite (Compton) you can find All Saints Church, another with splendid Burne-Jones stained glass and Morris tapestries.

Before returning to the river, though, (and bear with me here) a visit to the Nat West Bank on Derby Street is recommended. As an employee of the company, I have spent rather too much of my time within its portals looking down at paperwork rather than taking in the plasterwork, the exquisite ceiling, the “Ipswich” windows, stained glass and decorative exterior. Designed by the Sugdens, who we met back at the Nicholson Institute, it is considered to be the jewel in Leek’s Arts and Crafts crown. I assume, of course, that you will only have a look at the interior if you maintain an account with the bank!

The mills that brought Morris to Leek are dotted around the town, some are now derelict, some have been developed as the local equivalent of New York’s “loft” conversions and have been converted rather nicely, and some are used as storage for the many antique shops that now attract tourists to the town from both Europe and the USA.

In addition to all of the Arts and Crafts associations, Leek is another town with a link to Bonny Prince Charlie and his Jacobite Revolution of 1745. We have already heard of the ultimate failure of the march on London, and of the sacking of Mayfield Church and the night at Royal Cottage - here is another of the stopping off points on the march to Derby. Allegedly the Prince spent a night in the church’s vicarage, his army taking potshots at an eighth century Saxon cross as target practice. It should have been used to being a part of an anti-royal uprising, the town having provided shelter for Cavalier troops in the Civil War, during which time the church was damaged by Roundhead cannon fire.

Arguably, though, despite its links to wars of the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, it is the twentieth century that has most damaged the town, for it is not without its eyesores - the bus station and Smithfield shopping centre is a typical 1960s brutalist development, the Wilkinson and Argos building another blight - but it retains an enormous charm for the visitor and local alike. The cobbled market square, indoor market and secret yards and alleys are made to explore; there are some lovely eating places and lively pubs; and the wild open moors are within easy reach in almost every direction. But after a couple of hours, it’s that countryside that starts to draw you back, so stock up on provisions and we’ll stroll back downhill to the canal.

　

We emerge onto the A53 immediately opposite Westwood Golf Club, from where we head uphill for a hundred yards before turning right on a path leading to the Ladderedge Country Park. A track alongside runs to a car park, but is separated from us by the canal feeder. To our right, the golf course is a pleasant distraction, but there are memories of too many poor shots for it to be a favourite of mine and I find it easier to focus on the countryside, rather than the sport.

I walked this way one Sunday evening in June when the promise of summer was present for the first time that

year. The day’s heat hung heavy as the path twisted and turned to maintain its level contour and the golf course looked its early summer best. Ferns proliferated in the shade, nettles and dock leaves and a buttercup fringed bank fed down to the sixteenth fairway, the Churnet itself meandering alongside the tenth, eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth holes beyond. Three young children ran past, talking of pooh racing on the footbridge ahead - I must admit, it sounds a lot less salubrious than the Pooh Sticks that they were playing when I passed the footbridge a few minutes later. The feeder runs some four to six inches deep, crystal clear and with a surprisingly strong current, and as such makes a surprisingly good venue for the pastime.

Beyond the golf course the trees and hedges fade away, showing the shallow valley off to its best effect. The river wends its serpentine way from side to side, its presence indicated by ancient ash trees, some fallen and decayed, some maintaining a tenuous grip on life though their crowns die back. Smaller, younger trees cling together for comfort and support. A field to the right is filled with bright yellow buttercups, attracting the eye from a hundred yards or so away. They are surely - with the daisy and dandelion - the first flowers we learn to recognise as children; commonplace; taken for granted. Yet how lovely their simple charm on a warm June evening; how beguiling their presence when drifted across the grassy green of an otherwise fallow field.

To the left of the feeder lies a lovely little wood, providing a degree of shade on this sunny evening that is more than welcome. Foxgloves thrive in the damp and dark conditions, attracting bees away from the wildflowers in the sunlit fields. Dragonflies and damselflies buzz low over the water, their iridescent blue catching the eye as they flash hither and thither in their search for food - other insects, small fish and the like. The damselfly is the more delicate of the two; the dragonfly larger and more “robust”. Each is an adornment to a walk - unlike the swarms of black flies that can be seen hovering around the canopies above. Amongst those canopies is that of a quite magnificent beech tree, a labyrinthine collection of trunks, boughs and branches that seemingly reaches out across the stream to welcome you in with open arms. This is Cowhay Wood, a nature reserve formerly in the management of Staffordshire Wildlife Trust. A sign at the wood’s end calls it a nature reserve, although I’ve been unable to confirm that it retains that protection now it is no longer in the care of the Wildlife Trust. Whatever its official designation , it remains a place of magic and should be treasured for all that.

Past the wood, high above to the right, stands a bridge which carries yet another old railway line - this time leading between Leek and Macclesfield. A clamber up the steps reveals that the line has been taken up, but the way is clear as both footpath and cycle track and is obviously well-used by the natives of Leek. Were we to take the track and turn right, we would be back in Leek in minutes, entering the town in much the way that the canal does - through the back door. But the feeder has brought us this far and has been good to us - and we shall be meeting the railway soon enough. Rail may be the more direct route but the water is undoubtedly the “purer”. For now low route holds sway over high - canal feeder it is.

Just beyond the bridge we pass a fishing pond, fringed with reeds and a lovely display of yellow flag irises. Again, dragonflies and damselflies are present in profusion, with ducks dabbling on the surface as fishermen observe their lines and floats in the hope of seeing them disappear. None did as I watched, but the anglers seemed unfazed by this - just enjoying their surroundings and the sun-kissed end to the weekend. So often along the route we have seen men (always men) sat on canals and riverbanks and have scarcely exchanged a word with each other, but there is surely something that we hold in common - a desire for the peace and quiet of the great outdoors and a love of water. I can’t honestly say that I’ve ever been tempted to take up “the angle” as Walton described it but can readily identify with the pleasures of sitting alongside these ponds for hour after hour, enjoying the birdlife, feeling the sun on my back, and just relaxing. I’m also honest enough to know that I’d probably be bored rigid after just a couple of hours and desperate to get off and explore the area a little more. I would also be unable to balance that enjoyment with the taking of a fish’s life - ultimately I’m just too squeamish to take it up.

To the far side of the ponds the path wends its way between waist high foliage, with views of Rudyard itself to the left and ahead. There is more than one feeder here, and a miniature sluice gate indicates down which chute the water flows. The ground here is often boggy but the path itself is well-made and is truly the royal route into Rudyard, emerging onto the road by way of a final shaded little glade. A hundred yards long the road to the left is the small roundabout that is at the heart of the village, with its war memorial, apartment development in the old Poachers Hotel and Lake Road leading to the Rudyard Hotel. Our way, though lies to the right, where a hundred yards in this direction brings us to the old railway station, now enjoying a new lease of life as the headquarters and terminus of the narrow gauge Rudyard Lake Steam Railway.

On that June evening I followed the railway back towards Leek, before dropping off that bridge I mentioned (by way of the steps, I should explain) and retracing my steps back to Ladderedge. Just below the station I watched a man, surely in his eighties, work with his sheepdog in such close harmony that it was all I could do not to stand and applaud as the sheep exited the field through the intended gate. Again, I could not help but feel a certain kinship with the one man and his dog, out enjoying the fresh air of a glorious long, hot summer’s evening. I had seen so many different people on what is the shortest stage of the whole walk - golfers, cyclists, walkers, anglers, sheepdog trialists - but the key thing is that all were enjoying the countryside, and it came home to me just how vital it is that we ensure it remains unspoilt. Change is inevitable - we have seen the railway line converted to cycle track, for example - but we must always ensure that it is achieved sympathetically and with all due care. There are too many people enjoying the countryside for it do be done in any other manner.

　

Rudyard Lake is something of a misnomer, as it’s actually a reservoir - man-made rather than natural - built in 1768, with a huge dam retaining the water that covers nearly 170 acres of North Staffordshire countryside. Captain Matthew Webb, the first man to swim the Channel, entertained the crowds here with his aquatic feats on 25 June 1877; Blondin, the man who tightrope walked across Niagara Falls, came on another occasion; and Kipling’s parents famously first met here - the Edwardian author and poet, that is, rather than the cake-maker. The miniature railway runs from the old Rudyard Station to a point halfway along the eastern side of the lake, with stops at The Dam and Hunthouse Wood and it is the railway tracks that we follow as far as the dam, where we turn left and walk across to the Visitors’ Centre and the café.

I have something of an interest in these buildings, their having been built by a customer of mine - and a fine job ^th 2001 and until my visit I hadn’t known that there even was an Earl and Countess of Macclesfield. But the boathouse on the eastern bank, currently derelict, is to be converted into a modern exhibition on the boating history of the lake, and will be known as the Earl of Macclesfield’s Boat House, so the name and association with Rudyard will live on.
he made of them too. The visitor centre in particular is a lovely building, converted from a 150 year old boathouse and retaining all the atmosphere you would expect. Its interior contains displays on the lake’s history, its present and (to an extent) its future. The building was opened by the Earl and Countess of Macclesfield on Sunday May 27

Also inside the Visitor Centre you will find a collection of postcards from the Basil Jeuda Collection - including one showing Coxon Woodside Pavilion tearooms, a place that looks like it serves a pretty good apple pie, even though it no longer exists. (Basil Jeuda, incidentally, was a well-known railway historian and author who amassed a large collection of postcards and photos depicting railway and other transport related scenes.) The whole place exudes a “Swallows and Amazons” feel - my favourite book from childhood, and one that I love to read even today. There is even a mock up of an old boat in the Centre, with its own little porthole through which you can see a number of fish swimming around what is in effect a particularly large fish tank. They are perhaps representative of all the fish to be found in the Lake - eel, perch, roach, bream, rudd, tench, carp and pike, amongst others. There is also a stuffed pike weighing 11 ½ pounds that was caught by a T Gee on 23^rd December 1923 - something you wouldn’t want to be swirling about your ankles as you paddle in the shallows. Another point of interest in the centre is the presence of a mural comprising fragments of pottery designed by our old friend Philip Hardaker from Consall - he has similar “collages” at other points on the Horton parish boundary and it is good to see his work again.

Spurning the offerings available in the café, we leave the car park and turn right, admiring the properties to right and left of this quiet little road before forking away left on a track behind the old prefabs at the end. This is part of the Staffordshire Way once more and it soon narrows to a tight little path with brambles and ferns overgrowing the walls to either side. A caravan park is passed by to the right, although little of it can be seen, before dropping down through a wooded area to rejoin the cart track as it makes its way down to the lakeside. The path is some yards above the shore itself, and is separated from the water by more woodland. Holiday houses (and, who knows, year-round residences) start to appear to the right - although they are seen to better advantage from the eastern bank where they show off their face to the world, rather than the rear views we are getting today. The names of the properties give an indication of the desired atmosphere - The Bothy, The Boathouse, Water’s Edge, Sandy Nook, Sunrise - and I am often reminded of the house in On Golden Pond, that wonderful film starring Katharine Hepburn and both Henry and Jane Fonda. Having said all of which, I can’t help but feel that the trees would mean they run the risk of being dark and damp-feeling - especially when the sun is not directly on the houses, as it would be first thing in the morning. They are houses to take breakfast on the front decking, rather than an afternoon teas or early evening supper in the garden behind.

Shortly afterwards we reach the sailing club, a superb purpose-built facility alongside an old castellated building that is currently derelict and depressing when set against the modern building opposite. It is a pity that there is no access to the shore, and that there are signs preventing walkers from taking advantage of the gentle slope to the water’s edge at the risk of prosecution for trespassing, but no doubt there have been problems of vandalism here as elsewhere. A further pity is that the local disabled sailing club, at the time of writing operating from aging and dilapidated premises near the visitor centre, is struggling to gain planning permission for a new building when this club has such magnificent premises less than a mile away - although along a narrow cart track that may make access difficult. I don’t know enough about the issue to take sides, or to offer solutions, but trust that a compromise can be reached to allow the disabled club to continue to operate, and indeed to thrive, for the look on the faces of those youngsters enjoying time on the water is something wonderful to behold.

As I leant on the gate and took a swig of water I watched a cormorant skim low across the water, which - with the many yachts pulled up on the foreshore - only served to remind me of the Swallows and Amazons feel I’d mentioned earlier. Over recent years there has been signs that these seabirds are spreading inland and are being attracted to more and more lakes and reservoirs, such as Rudyard. It is still a surprise to see them, though, and although they are not a bird I find beautiful I do enjoy the sight of them in cruciform pose as they stretch their wings out to dry .

Leaving the buildings behind us, we again find wonderful old beech trees overhanging the track and blocking our

way down to the waterside. It is not long, though, until we come across a pair of gateposts seemingly blocking the way ahead. A little gate to the side enables passage by foot and - although it feels like trespassing - the public footpath makes its way in front of an old turreted, castellated building. It appears occupied - there are vehicles alongside and the windows are curtained - but it exudes an air of melancholy, with rotten windows and those undeniably shabby curtains. The views from the windows would be magnificent - if you could see through them - and the turrets and battlements are potentially attractive features. It could be - should be - special, but it isn’t. Instead it feels almost unwanted, ashamed of itself; moth-balled. In the early twentieth century there was a golf course to this north-western end of the lake and I have wondered if this building was the clubhouse, but it feels more like an institution of some sort - hospital or boarding school. No matter - the golf course was closed in 1926 and it is difficult to see any signs of its existence today.

The building is separated from the farmland beyond by a ha-ha, a deep ditch that prevents livestock from trespassing whilst preserving the uninterrupted views across to the lake and the hills beyond. Our way lies through that farmland, with another track curving away around the head of the lake where it meets up again with the bed of the old railway line that we have been shadowing for a good few miles now. There is parking for a few cars here, something I have taken advantage of on occasion, although it is un-signposted and known only to those who have first passed this way on foot. The track is muddy here and continues to be shaded by deciduous trees - at least until it emerges from beneath a road bridge and feels the sun on its back once more.

After a few hundred yards a nettle-ridden kissing gate appears to the left of the track, with fields of grazing land beyond. The diagonal path across the first field is clear and well-trodden - how this accounts for the nettle-ridden kissing gate, I’m not entirely sure - and enters a second field by way of a stile in the corner. A hedge is followed along, with fine views of a church and churchyard on a hill high above. A pathway is shortly reached which climbs the steep slops to enter the churchyard at its bottom corner. The parish church of St Lawrence, Rushton Spencer, is a gem of a building, a stone and wood construction which dates back to perhaps the 1500s - the oldest of the gravestones is dated 1610 (the late Thomas Goodfellow, please take a bow). The original building apparently dated back to the early thirteenth century, when it was built by monks from Dieulacresse Abbey, between Leek and Tittesworth Reservoir (the abbey was destroyed upon the dissolution of the monasteries in 1538 and now remains only in the name of a nearby pub and the surrounding area).

On the summer’s day that I first climbed the steep slope to visit, the church was occupied by pupils from Rushton school, in the company of a teacher and assistant. The children were exceptionally well-behaved and respectful of both the church, and of my presence as I took advantage of the open doors and - with the teachers’ blessing - explored the interior as well as admiring the exterior of the building. I know little or nothing of ecclesiastical architecture but enjoyed the minstrels gallery (built in the early 1700s) up stairs immediately to the left upon entering. The pews have names, initials and dates carved into them, not as graffiti as would be the case today but in order to denote “ownership”. From the gallery the curvature of the roof becomes clear and provides another attractive feature to enjoy. Retracing our steps downstairs, we come across the old stone font, as old as the church itself but not in such good condition it seemed to my untrained eye. As I wandered around, I listened to the children discussing the stained glass windows that some were drawing; the Ten Commandments that others were copying out; and the Coats of Arms painted upon the ceiling that just caught the eyes of the more curious. Not only did I find these of interest but I seemed to see them twice - once through my own eyes that have seen such things before, and once through those of the youngsters seeing them as though for the first time. It was a pleasure to visit the church in the first place, but to visit with such engaged and engaging young children was a pleasure twice over - I reluctantly left before feeling that I had outstayed my welcome but made a point of complimenting the teachers on the behaviour of their charges.

In the entrance porch I glanced through the visitors book and was surprised to see a number of names repeated

on more than one occasion - one particular family seemed regular visitors and the three young children were often to be found in the pages extolling the virtues of the peace and quiet they found here - peace and quiet that was certainly present today. I also noticed the award for the Best Kept Churchyard 2003 for the Stafford Episcopal Area. Trees surround the building, no doubt with the intention of sheltering from the winds that will often blow across this otherwise exposed hillside, and I suddenly realised that the village is some way distant from the church that serves its spiritual needs. This distance would nowadays no doubt deter the less devout from attending but in years gone by a full attendance was all but guaranteed. I am in no way religious but found this to be quite the loveliest building I had seen on possibly the entire expedition and left to make my way back down to the railway with an enormous smile on my face - widened still further when a buzzard lazily circled above the prominent gate to which I was headed. The gate is atop a bridge over that old railway line and I was soon back on the level once more and heading towards the village of Rushton Spencer itself .