Written for the Sheffield Telegraph, June 1907 – By H. Bishop
The well known and easily accessible cross country walk of some 18 miles, from Penistone to Bamford, is generally regarded by hardy pedestrians as one of the best walks of its kind in England. Where else, indeed, can the true lover of Nature be so readily charmed with the solemn grandeur of moor and mountain, or the music ripple of the babbling brook? The ‘Ramblers’ of the Derbyshire Pennine Club have recently made this same journey by night. Everything was done to ensure success, and a mid June date was booked for the venture, when it was sincerely hoped that the moon, almost at the full (a very important factor) would graciously assist the effort. Unfortunately, the early evening hours, prior to the party entraining for Penistone, were hours of continuous heavy rain. When, therefore, we night travellers (Sheffield section) presented ourselves at the Great Central booking office, time 11 pm, the usually placid official looked askance at us. Afterwards, glancing up at the clock, with an unmistakable air of “What time of the day do you call this?” he looked suggestively at his assistant, and again, through the glass partition, at us, and finally handed over the tickets.
After utilising our compartment en route as a dressing room, we at last reached Penistone, our rendezvous. Here we met several members of the Manchester section, and passing out of the wind swept railway station into the now deserted town, we turned our faces towards Langsett and the moors.
The weather conditions were surprisingly favourable, for the moon shone brilliantly, and the rain had ceased. Greatly encouraged, the party strode gaily along. Fortune, however, did not smile long upon us, for, as we sighted the distant moonlit waters of the Barnsley Reservoir, we felt evidences, in the shape of rain drops, of a disastrous change in the weather. The sky was cloudless, except to the south west, where, on the sky line, a storm seemed to be brewing. One by one, evil looking clouds spread their dark forms across the starry heavens, until, eventually, the moon itself was forced into final retirement. Then, in the prevailing gloom, and only then, did we realise for the first time, that it was night!
Crossing the massive embankment of the upper, or Langsett Reservoir, we hurriedly skirted the edge of Cliff Wood, then, by following the boundary wall we reached the bridge which spans Thickwood’s Brook, a main feeder of the reservoir. A few more minutes uphill walk brought us to the gate leading to ‘North America,’ an isolated farmhouse, the outpost of civilisation in these parts. The outlook, as we turned left, on to the moors, was very weird and dismal. There was nothing above or around save dark, vaporous clouds.
Well, was it that the party generally, knew something of the district. As it was, the foremost man found it not easy to follow the right track, although it is unmistakable under ordinary circumstances. Soon, however, we arrived by the steep side of Mickleden Clough, where the Hazlehead path joined ours. Here we encountered the full force of the storm, and although the improved light allowed a glimpse of the roaring torrent far below, and of the adjacent country, we had quite enough on hand to keep the narrow track and prevent our being unceremoniously blown over.. We pressed along in Indian file, conversation being impossible in such a gale of wind and pelting rain.
Near to the 1500 feet level we noticed a wooden hut, which we instinctively entered for temporary shelter and rest. Owing to the heavy rains, there was unfortunately, no clear water available for drinking purposes, although, for that matter, we certainly had had enough water to last us a lifetime. Naturally, we did not tarry long in the hut, but soon stepped out, and up the Cutgate, which was one continuous swamp, with here and there a tiny lakelet.
We were much cheered, however, at the coming of the dawn, despite an absence of gorgeous colouring, for the rain clouds seemed to roll mysteriously away before the advancing light, until, as we neared the watershed level (1656 feet), and trended down toward Slippery Stones, we finally left cloudland behind.
Margery Hill, on our immediate left, with the graceful outlines of Wilfrey and Derwent Edges beyond, were still dark with clouds. Later, however, their cloudcaps were scattered by the welcome rays of the early morning sun. Descending steeply to the River Derwent, we enjoyed unique views of the Kinder Scout country, the fresh green covering of the foothills in front and to our right, the milky white streams in spate, the seemingly limitless moorland, and the tors above, all lent an indescribable beauty and charm to the scene.
Arriving at the ford, we found, as expected, that the passage was impracticable owing to heavy rain, so we turned up the road leading to Howden House and Ouzleden Bridge. Here the party divided, some taking the ordinary route to Ashopton, via Derwent Chapel, whilst others, including the writer, visited Birchinlee, or ‘Tin Town’, the village home of the small army of D.V.W.B. navvies, now sound asleep in their red roofed corrugated iron buildings. It was here, whilst taking stock of the deep trough below, firm set with thousands of tons of masonry, that we saw the first human being since leaving Penistone some five hours ago!
From Birchinlee we walked leisurely along the Water Board’s railroad to Ashopton, admiring en route a glorious panoramic view of Derwent Edge and its weathered tors. The noble escarpment also of Bamford Edge, away to the right, provided a fitting climax to an extensive prospect. Continuing the journey, the party walked via Yorkshire Bridge to Bamford, arriving about 8.15 am.
Derbyshire Pennine Club 