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 19th 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created over the course of time with the ancient route of the river having dictated the line of the canal, in turn superseded by rail and so soon returned to the walking route it has no doubt been for time immemorial.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 23rd 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.
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.
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 17th 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 17th, 18th and 19th 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.
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 23rd 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 .
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