Authors: Narvel Annable
" ... keep hold of brakes and go easy on the speed."
Even so, the daring Rex reached nearly 40mph in those pre-safety helmet days and it was only by the Grace of God that all the racers reached river level without serious injury. Speed gradually subsided at a stand of dense conifers. Simeon was fascinated by the effect of sun beams penetrating deep into the gloom of the forest, falling on, and illuminating thick, dark purple beds of needles.
A little past Upperdale they came to an area called Cressbrook Dale where Cressbrook stream meets the River Wye. A large textile mill, which had seen better days, dominated the area on the left and caught their interest. Pleasing Georgian symmetry was surmounted by a cupola and a handsome pediment housed a clock which appeared to have stopped many years before. This once prospering mill was owned by William Newton [1750-1830] the carpenter-poet known as the 'Minstrel of the Peak' who made sure his little apprentices had sufficient rest, good meals and pleasant working conditions in brutal contrast to the appalling conditions at Litton Mill just a mile upstream.
Scott looked for a footpath to the riverside, which, in spite of its apparent invisibility, he knew had to pass between the mill and a very steep, densely wooded hill to the north. Success! A narrow passage took them, as it seemed, into another world. Like entering the 'secret garden', they had been transported into a beautiful secluded deep valley, shut in by rocks and woods, the first of a chain of lovely limestone ravines.
Suddenly, here in Water-cum-Jolly Dale, it was cooler, more tranquil with a totally different atmosphere - save for a rush of water to their left which required investigation. Smooth, clear, polished water, slow at first, and then bending, dipping, just before getting cloudy and agitated as it tumbled over a rocky fall. For a few moments they were entertained by the occasional leaf which would accelerate and get pulverised in the turmoil below.
The waterfall formed a constriction which created a small lake bounded by overhanging, sheer limestone faces: faces which amplified and echoed the evocative euphony of various water birds calling and crying. Nobody spoke, but everybody knew that this was a place to savour, a place to walk rather than cycle. There was a shared feeling of safety in the comfortable seclusion of this 'Shangri-La'. In this deep ravine, a serene, silent world of enchantment, steep rocks painted with lichen and moss gave a protective shield against modern noise.
Rocks and trees everywhere. They looked upwards following interesting craggy forms which became ruined castles - crooked medieval castles. But, unexpectedly, above the natural finials, arose out of the high foliage - an unmistakable man-made gothic structure, fashioned after the style of a fairy tale castle. This fantastic riot of sharp pitched roofs, steep gables, ornate tall chimneys and stone mullioned windows - broke the silence. They had discovered the home of Dracula! As if to confirm the fact, a solitary hawk was hovering high in the distant blue.
As they progressed, the lake became a river and the valley narrowed to become a gorge.
The warmth of the afternoon reacted with the cold of rocks, water and shade to created sudden gusts which stirred up willows. Zephyrs flashed the underside silver of leaves making a stark, bright effect, which travelled along the riverside, waving in waves and swathes, rippling, swaying, bowing and beckoning - before subsiding and returning the foliage back to green.
Ubiquitous ferns with their distinctive smell covered the banks, sometimes marestails pushed out of the mud and sometimes a delightful patch of forget-me-nots turned the riverside blue.
The water had mood changes. When it was slow it showed shimmering reflections of ash and sycamore. When it was deep they saw long, gently waving green weeds stretched out in the direction of the flow. Inches above, cute little black balls of fluff were going 'tweet tweet' and 'squeak squeak' racing along to keep up with mum. Just occasionally, the sun struck through this gorge of contrasts and shadow to glisten, sparkle and twinkle off the river surface - a surface often broken by the quick leap of a fish catching a hapless fly.
The valley seemed to get even deeper like a journey to the centre of the earth. The limestone had a multitude of tints from a flash of white to grey and occasional black. Above and beyond, right at the top, smooth, bright, green fields closely cropped by grazing sheep, were occasionally scarred by eruptions of ancient weather worn rocks.
Down below the boys were entering Miller's Dale and being entertained by sinister grotesque shapes of long dead trees, still majestic in death as in life: living ivy feeding on the rotting wood. Here they scared each other with ugly goblins, old hags and monsters. Dense foliage formed mysterious tunnels and caves, darkened and obliterated with cascading ivy, lots of ivy, harbouring more unknown horrors.
Abruptly, the teasing ceased when they saw an odd looking boy illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.
Chapter 9
Fairies, Goblins and Sacred Groves
The boy spotlighted by sunshine was cutting shoots from a young tree with smooth, grey-brown bark and pale-green feathery leaves. He stopped ... and they stopped. Slightly built, certainly not as tall as Scott nor as well made as Rex, the stranger gave them a warm wide eyed smile. In so doing he appeared stranger than ever - especially at the utterance of a falsetto and comical -
"Allo!"
Coquettishly, head tilted on one side, just for a moment, his eyes came to rest on each boy in turn - starting with Scott ... and ending with Scott. Processing fresh information at close quarters, it became clear from his confident demeanour that this boy was, in fact, a young looking man - and at 34, not so very young at that. He was something quite outside their usual Heanorian experience, indeed, he was the effeminate and bizarre type which would simply not be tolerated in Heanor. Scott was cautious, Rex was repelled, the twins were amused and Simeon ... well, Simeon was intrigued. Titch was curious and blurted out -
"Wot yer doin'?"
Attention was soon diverted from the appearance of this funny little oddity, to what it was, that he had to say. He launched into an explanation of the magical power of Rowan -
"Witches used it! Ya too late for the sweet smelling white blossom, an too early for the blood red berries ... "
He told stories of Rowan being tied to mine engines to guard against breakdowns. He widened his discourse to an overview of the romantic mysteries, lore and occult associations in the wilds of Derbyshire, giving examples which were not far away from where they stood.
They heard about the elusive fairies of Caldon Low, the cunning goblin called Hob who dwells in a round-barrow near Chatsworth, pagan deities, stone circles, sacred groves, human sacrifices, subterranean dwellings of elementals and flying saucers seen over Kinder Scout. They were told of a mermaid who swims at midnight on the eve of Easter Sunday, the bottomless pit of Eldon Hole, the Eagle Stone near Curbar which is said to turn as the cock crows ... These endless recitations were brought to an abrupt halt by a rude comment from Scott -
"My cock 'ill be crowin' next Satdy nate! We'll av ta get on."
Simeon was a little disappointed, he had enjoyed these curious and uncanny tales. At the same time his back had been comforted by that narrow shaft of warm sunshine striking into the cool gorge. The stranger asked if they had come near Stanton Moor and seized the opportunity to further delay their departure by telling them the erotic legend of nine young girls and just one boy who had angered God by committing an obscene act on the Sabbath day!
The storyteller, now having full attention, warmed to his subject of nine pretty maidens long ago, illicitly stealing off onto the moor with the naughty lad who was also a fiddler -
"Disgusting really! Per'aps you're too young to be ... "
It had the desired effect. Howls of protest urged him to continue with his implied pornographic narrative -
"Oo it were awful! 'E fiddled like mad. An them sluts - no shame! They danced an pranced in a circle, faster and faster, tearing off clothes ... it were rate rude, very rude! It were rude, lewd and nude. I'll tell thee! They went too far ..."
"Yes? What then?"
said Rex.
"Oo a can't say. Too embarrassin'."
"No itina! Tell us,"
said Dobba.
"Go on. What 'appened?"
said Danny.
"Well. Ad betta tell ya. It were like this ... ya can see fa ya self wot 'appened if ya go up there on Stanton Moor. They're still there, where they stood, in that circle, all that time ago. An that dirty bugger wit fiddle - im as well. They were petrified."
"A? Oo scared 'em?"
said Brian.
"No, a don't mean that. The Lord was furious. 'E turned 'em to stone! An it's a stone circle today - the Nine - Ladies - Stone - Circle.
Not exactly the ending they were hoping for. With curt cheerios and a few see yas, the six departed.
Moving through Miller's Dale they came across another old mill - Litton Mill, which was observed with passing interest and a total lack of knowledge. In less than a decade, a future Mr Hogg, in an alien land, thousands of miles from Derbyshire would be horrifying his students with historical accounts of dirty, unkempt, emaciated boys and girls, trapped, starved and suffering in this grey limestone prison set in such a beautiful ravine.
The pals were blissfully ignorant that more than a century and a half before, sadistic mill owner Ellis Needham took pleasure in seeing his brutal overseers punch, kick, beat and whip these poor wretches. Child-workers, younger than themselves, little better than slaves, started their toil at the demand of an unfeeling, clanging, factory bell in the grim darkness of five o'clock in the morning. In short breaks these ragged little children were fed a meal of rusty, half-putrid, fish-fed bacon and unpared turnips. Needham's pigs were better nourished and more kindly treated because those cruel days did not end for the small sad workers until eight in the evening.
It was six in the evening and miles short of their destination. They were late. Scott could see from his map that the ravine would meander on for more than a mile before they turned two hair-pin bends to scale the last steep, mile long ascent, up to Wormhill - a massive climb of 560ft out of the valley at the end of an already exhausting day. It had been difficult to move this motley group along. It seemed that every few yards some absorbing distraction would waylay one, or more boys bringing the convoy to a stop.
For example - after passing the textile factory, a row of tiny terraced cottages deserved attention and a large black tom cat tempted Dobba to bury his face in an enthusiastic cuddle: all five riders stopped to watch the cuddle. Further on, a sign pointed up a leafy lane to 'Ravenstore', once a large private house, now a Youth Hostel. Opposite, a foot bridge crossed the river - another opportunity to gaze into its crystal depths which, at this point, were brilliantly illuminated by a sunbeam: all six riders leaned over and were mesmerised by the spectacle.
Finally they came to the feet of massive stone legs supporting, far above them, an enormous viaduct which carried the 1861 Derby to Manchester Midland railway line: a relic and symbol of Victorian confidence. Here they turned right and immediately were forced to dismount in the face of a defeating, steep gradient on this last leg, the long and weary climb up to Wormhill where food and rest awaited them at the top.
It would have been a difficult and relatively dull trudge, especially after so much easy and attractive travel at river level, but for a recalled hilarious incident, the month before, which suddenly popped into Danny's head giving him an opportunity to do his 'Mrs Buxcey' - or 'B
oo
kcey' as it was pronounced by the lower orders.
After nearly half a century of service, the small hard faced history mistress had become a legend at William Howitt Secondary Modern School. This squat disciplinarian demanded nothing less than the very best her pupils could deliver. With his carefully honed, gravely Buxcey voice, Danny, standing on pedals, creeping up the hill, re-enacted the event of biting but amusing sarcasm which they had already heard several times, but loved to hear over and over again.
She, of frosty features was watchfully policing a deep silence, save for the faint movement of pens. Suddenly, this industrious peace was broken by the voice of authority -
"Daniel Forrester!"