Lost: One Mojo

A couple of stressful weeks at work, money worries and no longer being 'in' therapy, have left me feeling a bit out of sorts. And before I knew it, Sunday was looming. Where to go? I'd been out the previous Sunday, and Monday night too after an internal cry for help from my spirit and needing some soul food. I had driven out to the Fox House and cooked up my dinner while sat on the edge of Carl Wark. That was pretty blissful and helped me feel a little more me, but I still haven't felt quite 'right' in myself...

So, where to walk? I decided to revisit last weekend's destination, sort of, and approach the area from a different angle. I had been inspired by the view near Abney Grange, looking down the valley towards Bretton Clough, with the remnants of what look like moraines, a pretty confused but small area of landscape.

Plotting my walk the night I was also conscious of wanting to walk further thank I've done for a while (more lost mojo stuff; the hip thing has knocked my confidence a little) so I planned a 10 mile route that would take me through Abney Clough, up on to Abney Moor and then down to the Grange, around to Bretton, do a bit of a wiggle into the Clough and then up on to the moor and go stone circle hunting. Plan made, printed, customary battle with clear sticky film (forecast = rain), pack packed, poles in car (I still forget them sometimes) and I was good to go. More or less.

Heading out I felt good; it wasn't too late, though it wasn't that early either. The drive was alright, an idiot up my bum until I turned off after Fox House to Grindleford, and then a spirit raising section near Leam. I parked off the road near Hazelford (what a lovely name), making sure my handbrake was on and set off down the track past Tor Farm. Turning back to check the car wasn't sliding down the hill it was lovely to see the view over to where I'd had dinner 7 days before. There is something about this landscape that wants to transport me back in time. Massive blocks of stone lay recumbent in the sweet meadow grass, dotted with those white clouds on legs we call sheep.

I was heading towards Stoke Ford and not having been there for the best part of 20 years, frankly I couldn't remember the landscape. Not to worry, I'd got the laminated map and figured out where I was. Kind of.

From the grassland I went through a five bar gate and was plunged along a footpath into a bit of a wood that reminded me very much of a section on the West Highland Way apart from I had better weather this day, the footpath twisting and turning, some parts sandy underneath clumps of heather with glittery stone and sand fragments glinting in the sun. It was a lovely little stretch and I thoroughly enjoyed, even more so as I emerged into a glade where a track forded a stream, and a couple of robust foot bridges negotiated their way for foot passengers. I hung around a little while, smelling the heady perfume of some pale cream and yellow honeysuckle, before crossing over on one of the bridges and onto the path.

This was my first 'navigational error', or, 'where I went wrong'. Instead of taking the path on the southern side of the stream (which was even VERY clearly sign posted to Stoke Ford), in my perfumed drunkenness I somehow decided to head on a path on the northern side, which initially looked promising but after a bit I started to question myself. Especially when I passed through sections bordering what looked like burned out vehicles, a barbed wire topped stone wall, a mid thigh high meadow and a curious mini orchard and attempt at a woven willow structure with a camp fire/kitchen nearby. Strange. I wondered if I was about to be an extra in a remake of 'Deliverance' and looked around me to see if I was being watched. No one. But I could hear voices on the breeze... I hurried on.

Soon after my Deliverance moment I spied a multi fingered footpath sign in the distance. Result! I arrived at Stoke Ford with a sense of relief and company as about ten middle aged (hang on, that's what I am now; maybe they would now be counted as old?) people were having a brew on the far side of the stream. I plonked myself down on the stone bank with my feet dangling over just above the water and had some nuts and drank some water and just watching the world go by.
Another group of very cheery ramblers came down the opposite bank, looking to be from late 60s and into late 70s. The Leader, wearing a Bolsover Ramblers baseball cap, smiled at me, proudly declaring they were doing a 9 miler and heading up to Abney. It looked as if he was about to carry on up the hill but was halted in his tracks by plaintive cries from some of the others of, "I thought we were going to stop for a coffee!".
They perched against the stone wall and I enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversations, the mundanity of daily life, what the neighbours were up to etc etc. The first group departed, a group of 6 fell runners streaked past without coming down to the Ford, and then another group of ramblers marched from west to east, much like the elephants in the Disney version of the Jungle Book. After this mini Piccadilly Junction had dispersed I decided to rouse myself and went back to the footpath sign. It clearly pointed the way to Abney so for the life of me I can't remember why I decided to ignore that and to instead head for a small gate into another meadowy area running alongside the stream...

A couple of people passed me, a jovial Scotsman with a lady who looked to be his Thai Bride. She was fit and they both strode ahead of me and soon disappeared. I caught up with them again as they negotiated the first of many low hanging branches and we continued to concertina together and apart for the next third of a mile or so. The differentiating moment came at a whole Beech tree laying across the ground. The top of the trunk was about 4 to 5 feet off the ground. I decided I wanted to play on the top of the tree, enjoying the different perspective with the tree still alive but horizontal rather than vertical. Moving on I was halted again by a goat skull hanging in another tree, horns attached, looking a little sinister. Another Deliverance moment?

By now I had determined I was most definitely not on the right path. I hadn't quite figured out where I was but the map didn't add up with where I needed to be, and the end of the path was in sight. Well, technically that wasn't quite true; there was no end as such it just disappeared. I couldn't immediately see where the couple had gone; there were no obvious tracks to me. Instead, more barbed wire, a stream, a bank plunging down into said stream. Ok, up then! A minute on a mud wall showing the previous couples secrets of sliding confirmed they had passed this way. I scrambled up and slid back down but the up part won over and I escaped the mud chute. Argh, more barbed wire. I was conscious I was officially trespassing and having figured out where I was on the map, knew I wasn't on a right of way, and wasn't that far from a couple of farm buildings. I spent a precarious couple of minutes straddling the barbed wire, trying to hold it down and away from my nether regions and failing to pass unmarked, before making it to the other side. A brew was most definitely called for so I settled my rump onto a mossy bank and fired up the sidewinder. A cup of coffee (I'm trying out Kenco Millicano instead of the ubiquitous Starbucks Via; way less packaging and not bad a taste) in my lovely Kuksa gave me pause for thought and respite. Oh, and this pic demonstrates my acquired prowess with Thermawrap and Duct Tape!

I took the opportunity to replan my walk for the day. Cast aside the 10 mile Mojo and instead make the most of what I'd got. I was following Bretton Brook rather than along Abney Clough and I decided instead to adopt Bretton Clough properly, find the convergence on the map where the path from Abney and Cockey Farm descended before rising to Nether Bretton and see where my feet were to take me then.

It wasn't that long before I saw a little footbridge in the crease of the valley, which I gained after negotiating more barbed wire and a deep gouge in a bank, secreting a stream. Jumping over a couple of tussocks I got to the bridge, crossed over and found a couple of footpaths leading away. I felt a sense of relief, away from the claustrophobia of the woods and out onto the...bumps? I was slap bang in the middle of what had inspired the walk, a rougher country version of Postman Pat Land, paths wheedling their way around them, the bumps being too tall to see over. It was fun! I used Viewranger on my phone to see which one I had picked but it wasn't difficult terrain, I was just more curious to see what it looked like. There was the outline of a long ruined building, joined by a family of four out for a late picnic. I rounded another bump and left them. I completely loved this area and delighted in it's twists and turns and surprises, the fecundity of the ground, the sense of place. I could happily imagine living here, and in researching the area on the net, found that this formed a refuge against Bonnie Prince Charlie and his cattle rustlers in 1745. My link to the highlands restored in this fold of Derbyshire?

Following another fold I dipped to another stream, across a bridge and then took the high sheep path instead of the low footpath, across a hillock graced with birches, heather just starting to flower and bracken fronds unfurling. Glorious! A mix of Skylarks and a variety of Tits were calling and singing, woodland and moorland birds intermingling song. Even more heart lifting I came out on another meadow with another ruined building in the middle distance. Fallen down stone walls were dusted with a low living member of the bedstraw family (thanks @Hen4!) which, when the sun shone made my heart glad. John Muir used that phrase for the mountains but I find that for me it can apply almost anywhere if I keep my senses alert. The stones were nestled comfortably among the plants, as if they were just a-slumber. Yet another place I want to return to and dwell. I moved on to the ruin, enjoying figuring out the structure and what fit where in the ramshackle ruins, nature taking over and forming perfect benches as grass overlaid double walled structures. A turf seat. A red moving dot caught my eye; someone up on the small cliff face overlooking the clough. Interesting. It looked like a couple and I wasn't sure if I was intruding on them or actually if they were intruding in on me in my soliloquy.

A track led away from the ruin, towards where I had walked the previous Sunday. Rather than cutting across country with the growing bracken and heather and ground nesting birds, I decided to keep to the path. I seem to find that regardless of where I walk I am usually rewarded with a new sign or sound and, following this path I came upon a beautiful pastoral scene with lambs suckling at their mums, while shaded under a wizened tree. Their nudges were so enthusiastic that the ewes were off their hind legs. Other lambs were much more casual, one stretching from sleep, reminding me of my cat as hind legs extended.

Soon though I was on to the top, The Barrel Inn at Bretton just over the horizon, the mast at Sir William Hill clear and proud. It is such a landmark hereabouts; I don't regard it as an eyesore as it's something I'm so familiar with it seems part of the landscape I know. The odd Skylark took off from the grass, singing in alarm and warning. Thoughts of stone circles had left me; too many people on the edge of the moor for the solitude I prefer, so I wove my way through a plantation area and then up to the cliff I'd seen the people on earlier. A family were about 75m behind me but didn't stop at the outcrop. It was windy as the valley funnelled up energy from the valley, swooping up and over the cliffs. I didn't mind; there was enough shelter to take a pew, make a brew and absorb the view! Gliders were making the most of the weather, acrobatics in the sky. The colours of the rock face, the lichen, so much detail.

Time was passing comfortably but I decided the return trip to Stoke Ford was due, where I made the same Jungle Book elephant traipse down, across and up; too many people at Piccadilly Junction again! Now following in reverse the path I should have taken originally I could see newly planted native trees, cordoned off against sheep grazing. I passed a line of ants, looking industrious. I traced them back to their nest, the top of the anthill flat as if someone had cut a lid off. It was like looking at a kaleidoscope, ever shifting before my eyes. While absorbed I was passed by the family of four who had passed me at the outcrop; one of the sons dressed in a Belgian camo pattern with a yoke/daypack arrangement and Magnum boots on. He glanced over what I was wearing and initially looked doubting at me. That passed as I passed them and I like to think that maybe, just maybe, he saw the light of lightweight backpacking.

The view I had turned around to admire at the start now greeted my eyes. It was a minor struggle to keep to the footpath as my eyes were held by the view, High Low (a small hill) looking suspiciously akin to Carl Wark to my mind, the ribbon of Stanage reaching towards Bamford Edge, Higger Tor proud on the horizon. Again I was taken to times past.

I'm not sure if I have found my mojo, maybe it's just a simple matter of being part of the rat race and competing priorities, but I know for sure that I absolutely need to get outside regularly. The quality of my life increases in direct proportion to the time I spend walking and pondering, noticing and paying attention. I felt a little embarrassed at mis-reading the map not once but twice, I've still not increased my mileage as I want (but why do I want?). But this is honest, this is me, and if you can help me find it I am happy to follow directions!