Lost Lad (10 page)

Hand dug by labourers with spades 166 years before, this artificial river was created for the purpose of making it easy for heavy goods to be pulled by horses between Cromford and Nottingham at a time when roads were generally much worse than the pathway upon which they were standing.  There was a need to keep the waterway as level as possible.  They should watch out for a point when the canal plunged straight into the bowels of the earth: a place called Gregory Tunnel.

            Further on, 18th century folk were amazed to see a 'river in the sky' when the Wigwell Aqueduct was first built.  Effectively a man-made river flying 30 feet over the River Derwent. 

           
"Mind it don't fall down!  It did when Mester Jessop finished building it in 1791, but 'e put it all back straight away.  A 'spect it's steady now."
 

They were told to observe a spooky and gothic looking stone building which had a huge chimney with an odd distinctive wide parapet.  This was Leawood Pump House, the home of a massive 1849 beam steam engine, still in working order which could suck up water from the river to replenish the canal at the rate of 31 tons every minute.

            Further still on the left and high up in the wooded hills, they should note another mighty, even older hissing and spitting steam engine which used an endless rope haulage system to pull heavy materials 1000 feet up a steep incline.  The High Peak Railway moved goods from the Cromford Canal all the way across the top of Derbyshire to Manchester.  

The old man bid them farewell and told them to be careful of snakes!  A warning received by Scott with some scepticism, but, in warm summers, the occasional adder has been spotted.  

All those advertised features caused considerable comment and provided great excitement; especially the murky depths of the tunnel with its dark echoing drips, a spooky journey with a tiny window of daylight at the far end.  They explored a 'haunted wharfinger's cottage', an old picturesque crumble of masonry and invasive foliage just south of the aqueduct where a short canal branches off to Lea Mills.  

The canal came to an end at Cromford Wharf next to the one-time water powered cotton mill, according to the old man, the world's first factory.  Across the road, briefly, they noted the pleasing proportions of St Mary's Church and its densely shaded churchyard.  Nobody was there to tell them that it was a mausoleum for the Arkwright family who once ruled the area. 

It all became different.  It became colder with the fast racing river and tall trees on their right, a sheer rock face on their left with more trees, big trees, high up at the very top of the rocks - all creating deep cool shade.  Titch found it a little intimidating, Dobba loved it.  Feeling the chill, Rex put his shirt on and Scott, keen to be back on course, was looking for a castle over the river which should be, but was not in sight.  Having raced on ahead along the rough path, the twins saw it first: dominating the valley, a solid baronial eminence proclaiming the wealth and power of Sir Richard Arkwright who had built Willersley Castle in 1792.    

It was a right turn at the end which took them onto the busy A6 which curved between Masson Mill with its unusual convex weir and the mighty Masson Hill on the left which is honeycombed with old lead mines.  All six boys had visited the popular Matlock Bath, a happy resort of thermal springs, Victorian nostalgia, old hotels, little cafes and a maze of intriguing rocky nooks and crannies.  Obediently they steeled themselves to pedal past the temptation of garish modern amusements following the leader who was determined to reach Wormhill before 6.00pm.

They were keen to identify to each other familiar landmarks.  Victoria Tower surmounted the wooded hill of the Heights of Abraham on the left and the impressive sheer cliff face of High Tor loomed on the other side of the river.  Titch insisted he could see a face in the rock.  Danny suggested it was the face of the old man on the canal watching over them.

It was a relief to turn left and escape the busy traffic at Matlock Bridge, but Dobba and the twins had to dismount in the face an incredibly steep hill: a capitulation which forced the others to do likewise.  Scott assured them that it was worth the hard labour and detour through Snitterton to avoid five miles of the main A6.  At the summit they were rewarded with magnificent views of Matlock town climbing up the far eastern hill sporting the distinctive Victorian Smedley's Hydro and the mediaeval looking Rockside Hydro.  Mr Smedley's one time home, Riber Castle, crowned the adjacent hill to the south.

Descending down the windy narrow lanes through a tiny wooded community called Oker, the group felt that they were the first outsiders to visit that remote hamlet in hundreds of years.  A shaded narrow lane came into sunny open fields but was abruptly barred by a very private looking gate which precipitated an urgent conference and studious perusal of the map.  All was well, this was the gated road, as foretold by Mr Matthewman.  The next mile would require the opening and closing of several gates but had the benefit of being dead flat on the meadows of the Derwent river plain.  Now they had a vast amount of room under a big sky.  This journey was blessed with extraordinary sharp contrasts of scenery, even by English standards. 

Suddenly they stopped!  A menacing group of staring cows stood close, too close, to the open road which did not have the usual protection of a kind hedge.  Scott tried to re-assure by insisting that the cattle were all cows and everybody knew that cows were perfectly safe.  However, the lads were more alarmed still when the usually fearless Rex (sporting his tight bright red jeans) commented on the look of one particular unfriendly, glowering 'cow' of distinctly masculine build which did not seem at all pleased to see them.  He added -

           
"A canna see any tits on that cow!"
    

Nobody wanted to use the word 'bull', but all eyes were straining to discern any visible male genitalia.  After a few tense moments, the impasse and indecision was broken by the boss who -
"'adn't time ta muck about."
  Bravely and with dignity he rode past the beast.  His troops followed, immediately overtook him and, with considerable anxiety and maximum effort, accelerated up to the safety of the next gate.   

Chapter 8

Water-cum-Jolly Dale

When in Derbyshire, any route from river level is almost certainly to involve very hard work.  So it was that the climb up to Stanton Moor was slow and hard going for the cyclists who (never having heard of it anyway) were unaware of being just below the ancient, legendary Nine Ladies Stone Circle.  Simeon loved his leafy glades and this beautiful wooded minor road to the east of the moor was a treat.  Huge gritstone rocks, perilously piled up on the left caught narrow beams of sunlight giving an occasional sparkle from fragments of quartz.  They went down the hill, taking a right fork, avoiding the village of Stanton-in-the-Peak - which would have been another treat had time permitted.

Speeding Down Pilhough Lane, Dobba's shirt flapped furiously in the wind and even more so down the steeper and narrower Stanton Hall Lane until they came to a small, timeworn, mossy bridge crossing the River Lathkill which was about to join the River Wye.  Moments such as this were pleasantly consuming the day: leaning over stone parapets looking into crystal waters, spotting fish, making humorous observations, exchanging adolescent comments - all part of the bonding process. 

            It was midday - they had to move and move quick.  Re-joining the mercifully flat, if busy A6, gave them an opportunity to zip along the last two miles to Bakewell in this wide valley created by the River Wye. 

Again it was the observant twins who yelled out the discovery of a mighty castle with medieval battlements from fleeting glimpses through heavy foliage on the far side of the river.  As all heads turned right, Scott took satisfaction in calming the excitement and airing his superior knowledge by a dispassionate, deep voiced announcement of -            
"'Addon 'all".

           
"Wot's 'e say?"
said Titch

           
"A think 'e said - 'Bugger all',"
said Rex.

           
"No! Ay said - 'Sod all',"
shouted Brian.

Bakewell was busy.  Bakewell was always busy on Saturday, but from past experience Scott had discovered a quiet, high quality route into the town centre, cutting a mile off the main road.  Just opposite Intake Lane, a footpath took them into the Rutland Recreation Ground.  Here they could walk by the river side and then straight into a wide choice of cafes and tea shops located in a pleasantly confusing maze of quaint little streets.  Dobba's eye was caught by an autumnal woodland oil painting -

           
"Nice intit.  Forty nine an' eleven!"

           
"If ya look at it 50 times it's less than a shillin' a look,"
said Scott.

           
"Look at it 600 times, Dobba, then it's only a penny a look!"
said Titch.  The innumerate Dobba was quietly envious of Titch's quick arithmetical ability. 

They were all hungry.  Many of the eating houses looked a little on the posh side to this little bunch of ragamuffins who were sensitive to their casual appearance and social standing.  A cafe, snack bar or even a humble tea shop would be OK, but something which looked like, or proclaimed itself to be a 'Restaurant' was definitely out of the question.  They risked being made to feel unwelcome, or worse, told to leave, not to mention the small matter of having enough money.  As this was a special treat it had been decided that a cafe was better than squashed sandwiches in the saddle-bag.  After a brief reconnaissance, the 'Honey Bun Cafe' seemed about right, providing various items on toast with a cup of tea for under two shillings and a warm welcome from two attractive young women.

It was nearly 2.00pm when they were replete and resting on long comfortable benches in the colourful and well stocked Bath Gardens.  Looking up the hill, rising out of the trees, dreamily, Simeon unconsciously noted an interesting gothic profile of an elegant spire surmounting an octagonal tower, battlemented walls and finials.  All Saints Church gave him pleasure together with the good company of his, now more sedate, companions.  Simeon Hogg was very happy.            

The day was blessed with high pressure and blue skies but the temperature only modest in the mid to high sixties.  A damp, well shaded main road going north was decidedly cool.  Hard work pressing against a gradient helped to warm them up.  The thin and slightly undersized Forresters gave triumphant bell rings as they overtook Rex and Scott who usually occupied the second and first positions.  Ashford-in-the-Water gave another opportunity to be pleasantly sedated, viewing big fish in clear swift cold waters.  Moving on, some chance comment sparked a heated debate over a football celebrity, which ended with the humorous diversion of a noisy farmyard on their left, which, in turn, sparked Rex to do his brooding hen impression.  All followed suit.  All the way up to Monsal Head, they indulged in a performance which often irritated Mrs Cook, their former teacher.  Six large 'hens' were clucking with varying degrees of emotion, starting with a relaxed, puffed out, slow contented cluck-cluck, up to an alarmed, feather scattering, panicked, squawk - as fowl after fowl pressed the pedals ever harder, each trying to get ahead of the other.      

This jolly madness was respectfully stilled when they reached the impressive view-point at the summit of Monsal Head: a panorama which was all the more breath-taking with such good visibility.  Eyes travelled several miles, taking in the lush beauty along the Wye Valley to the north-west, and then, to the south-west, along Monsal Dale.   

Dobba became excited and voluble seeing a hand made faded sign over a cottage door offering pint mugs of tea.  Scott consulted his map and watch before assenting to this much welcomed refreshment, eagerly enjoyed by the parched chickens as they admired the 1861 Monsal Dale Viaduct.  A fragment of conversation between two fellow onlookers was overheard -

           
"John Ruskin hated it!  He said it destroyed the valley and ... 'now every fool in Buxton can be in Bakewell in half an hour and every fool in Bakewell can be in Buxton in half an hour.'"

Scott North was the only boy to have had experience of the dangerous and precipitous drop from the heights of Monsal Head down into the depths of Upperdale.  Mindful that his was the only bicycle in optimum condition in contrast to the others, particularly the rickety Forrester machines; he realised this posed an extra risk in addition to the inevitable bravado of kids showing off.  A narrow road with a hazardous bend to the left would cascade them, hell for leather, 300ft into the valley in less than a quarter of a mile.  In the absence of any adult, this knowledge kindled a heavy responsibility on Scott's leadership and accordingly he warned them to -