Hope to Cave Dale, Green Dale to Bradwell, White Peak to Dark Peak
I’ve run Cave Dale a few times. Under usual circumstances, its an early morning thing – before 6am – and the idea is to run up Cave Dale and then head west to Mam Tor and try to beat the crowds and the tourists. Today however, this is not the case. Both me and Tony have agreed to explore the section of the Peak District south west to south east of Castleton: Cave Dale, a portion of Bradwell Moor, Bradwell and Brough.
Its not that early; around 8.15am when we set off from Hope. Cyclists are starting to rush in along the main road and a few walkers are setting off into the fields. The skies are gun-metal grey and its not that warm. Summer foliage is dulled and muted by the light and everything seems in shadow. Tony is tired and my feet and ankles hurt from running 10 miles in some new, high drop trainers yesterday. I expect my muscles will return to being painless within a few miles.
From Hope we cross a bumpy English plain, scattered with sheep and stiles. Pigeons, grey as the day, are plentiful and the river tinkles quietly to our right. There is a concrete factory to our left that feels old and oppressive. We pass a couple of walkers and cross the landscape into Castleton, taking the tiny footpath along the main road, past the pubs and the coffee shops that haven’t woken up yet. Stripes of sunlight begin to fall diagonally across the streets and lanes.
A sharp left and some guesswork brings us to the entrance to Cave Dale and we start a rickety, slippery ascent through the boulder-field that spills from the top of the ravine, down toward the village. Limestone sides climb up toward the source of the sunlight stripes and some thin clouds that are beginning to form in the sky. Formed by wind, water and time, there’s only water in evidence today (unless you count your watch, its impossible to see time and there’s no wind that I can detect), trickling between the stock-still-tumble of the stones. There’s a castle around here – above us somewhere, on top of the cliffs to either side – but I don’t make time to see it. Its beautiful but as a run its a slog; the polished stone starts to become hidden in the grass and it takes all of your attention to see them and avoid them.
By the top, its become possible to look somewhere apart from the ground and the skies and clouds are getting darker and billowing across the tops like bonfire smoke. It feels like the Dark Peak all of a sudden, like its under Manchester’s unofficial jurisdiction and like all rocks will now be gritstone until further notice.
Map-reading chaos stalks the morning but we eventually set our feet on the right trail, twice passing some Duke Of Edinburgh teenagers and feeling the wind and some smatterings of rain. The route down to Bradwell is all new to me. I was aiming to run down Jennings Dale and Green Dale, but in the end I think we only managed to hit Green Dale and, looking back up the way we’d come, I wished we’d discovered Copley Dale and run down that instead. The downhill is more than welcome after Cave Dale.
We tumble into Bradwell, muscles hurting and scratched, but pleased to have come downhill and pleased to be down from the moorland swells above and around us. The heather is forming but its not bright yet: autumn feels like its materialising quietly when no-one’s looking.
Tony is aghast at the awful elevation that sweeps from the bottom of the dale to the wooded crests and tops of Bradwell Edge. My heels have not warmed up and are screaming, Tony is tired but resigned: however, within seconds we’ve decided to run up there anyway, just to see what’s there.
By the top, it turns out that the main thing we can see is the concrete factory. The countryside that threatens to swallow it is beautiful though and the bracken and trees that frame every view give it a unique feel that never quite chimes but never becomes dissonant either. Memorable is a good way to think of it, perhaps.
The road down from Bradwell Edge to Brough is a beautiful one and its one that we’ve both run many times, to our surprise. The last time for both of us was the Hathersage Hurtle. Shatton mast rises out of the still-dull heather and the Dark Peak feel returns. The bottom of the bulging hills is invisible and it feels high and sweeping.
The road is a big, rocky downhill that I’ve never done in a state less than exhausted. During the Hurtle, I was running at race pace and every other time, I’ve covered at least 10 miles of cross-country and trail by the time I’ve reached it. Consequently, its always been a painful descent and this time is no different. My heels wail and buzzards circle silently above.
Brough-On-Noe eventually approaches, appearing quickly as the base of the decline flattens and then even more quickly becoming a fast road, fizzing with holiday season traffic. The track back to the car is plain again, but this time with a slight incline. There’s one mile to go, and the concrete factory has returned to our field of vision and the White Peak atmosphere is blooming as the day becomes filled with sunshine and light.