The Photographer scrambling down says he's been up top for the sunrise - anyone carrying a tripod up hills is serious about their pictures and warrants the title Photographer with a capital P. So it wasn't 'Bo Peep' after all... Had he appeared a few minutes earlier he would have got a shock though - unless National Geographic (or the seedier tabloids maybe) are paying good money for quality time exposures of ageing bare bottomed bivvouaccers about their ablutions.
'Get some good ones?' I ask.
'I hope so,' he replies. 'Don't fancy climbing up there again.'
Not called Cave Dale for nothing - potholers have discovered no fewer than 12 caves up here, some with connections to the nearby massive 'Devil's Arse' (formerly the more polite Peak Cavern).
Give me sunlight every time though, and if I'd bivvied 'up top' I'd be basking in the stuff right now.
At the top of the dale I stop to take pictures of a mountain hare, but I'm totally under equipped and he gets my scent and 'boing', he's away like Zebedee.
There's evidence of industrial activity up here… maybe fluorspar and the area seems bleak and unnatural somehow.
There are good backward views of Mam Tor, Back Tor and the Kinder massif, before the badly scrambler-bike rutted descent begins towards Peak Forest and the main road crossing.
After a short road stretch I'm passing Limestone Way Farm then descending into Hay Dale. I'm looking forward to Hay Dale - a forgotten little corner of an over-used and over-visited National Park. The only place I've felt humbled enough to walk barefoot in the past… mind you I was in fear of oncoming blisters (I was right too). Today I tip toe through, and all is right with the world. I take my time here but all too soon it's opening out and I'm into Peter Dale.
Monks Dale can shoo this time, (I have occasion to be ill at ease with this 'dale of monks', having once been caught out by the rapidly setting sun. The passage took over 2hrs in the darkness - for darkness again read blackness. Even with a small torch it was an impenetrable, slippery, slimy exhausting experience).
For this reason perhaps the Limestone Way takes to higher ground as it continues to Millers Dale. I have seen only 2 people all morning: the Photographer and a pleasant lady walking her dog in Peter Dale.
Once under the cast iron viaduct that, in times past, carried the railway here, I double back under it and up the road heading for the car park and toilets. Who knows, I could be lucky and find the Wriggly Tin café here has extended its opening times…
No such luck… it's closed, and closed for good now it seems. I sit at the station… were I waiting for a train I would have had a very long wait indeed… but the wait for assembling wardens is very short. A door is unlocked… a kettle is filled… I miss my opportunity to beg a drink, but the muesli is good from my pre-packed 100gm portion… who needs coffee anyway… argh, me! That's who… booh hoo…blurb…splutter.
I'm back on the road (tarmac, literally) and heading to the A6 crossing by The Waterloo Inn… (don't get any ideas, it won't be open…)
A track heads up to Five Wells at Sough Top, then there's more road section down through Flagg before picking up green lanes into Monyash.
As I head up the lane an approaching walker seems in a bit of a flap - he can't seem to open the gate and climbs over… He's red faced and appears 'put about'. He stops to ask if I've seen an ambulance in the pub car park a hundred yards back. I have not. 'Only a young lad's come off his bike. He says there was an ambulance in the car park when he came past... he thinks he's dislocated his leg'.
Farther up the walled lane I met the farmer coming down on a tractor that must have paid for itself by the time I was doing joined-up writing. So, anyway, I'm going to stop with the injured and he's on his way down to the pub to make sure a call's been made for an ambulance… right… and I can leave the gate open… right…
At the top there is no sign of anybody - I take a picture of some mountain pansies and some orchids right beside the path. I'm just wondering if the lad's limped off, motorbike and all, when, round the corner, there he is laid in the track: leather jacket and jeans with calf length scrambling boots. In my school days he'd have been a rocker or a greaser. His helmet is off and his bike's leant against the bank. I'm a bit concerned about the petrol that's spilling out, but relieved that its owner is conscious and can move his head (not that I encouraged him to, but he raised his head as I approached). He says he wants to move but can't… and that his leg feels like its going all over the place… he goes on to tell me it's dislocated, because he dislocated his arm once and that's just what it felt like: 'Gooing all ovver it were.' Alarmingly he tells me that he's rolled over from his previous position and now can't move at all… 'Can he move his other leg?' I ask, and check him over for any sign of bleeding. Thankfully he's dry. I keep him talking as best I can; wanting to keep him conscious, but conversation is difficult on day 2 of passing 'hellos' and '…good day for it.' He seems determined to lift his right leg, but complains that nothing happens… I reassure him that help is on its way. He's clearly in a lot of pain. I offer a sip of water and try to keep the sun off of him. I'm worried that he might be in shock and ask if he feels chilled… but no, he's fine, he says. Can he wiggle his toes? I ask. He grimaces and says he can. He thinks it would be a good idea to take his boot off… I discourage him from any movement and think that his shock is manifesting in him trying to do something to help himself… and that he's frustrated that he can't. I keep reassuring him that help is not far away… but remind myself that, in all truth, I have absolutely no idea.
The old tractor comes gearing back up the lane. The farmer bounces about in a well rusted smooth steel seat in an old-worldly surreal kind of way.
The ambulance is on its way he affirms. The Pub let them use the phone after all, but now he's got to get on… work to do… he's going to put the calves in another field as he won't be able to let them into this one now. He chugs away up the lane in a cloud of dusty haze. As if the lad's deaf I relate this new info with gusto… help is now definitely on the way.
Time slows… the sun burns down… this is high noon stuff. The lad seems determined to raise his leg. I decide to try and ease my Ridgerest underneath to support it… A couple appear on the hill… the man clearly doesn't want to get involved but the woman insists on using her mobile phone to check on progress. Has a call been made? She speaks authoritatively… she's a teacher I think to myself as she continues in a determined manner: 'Well there's no sign of an ambulance here..,' she says and tucks the phone away reassuring us that a call has been received and help is on its way. They depart up the lane… I hope to be following very soon as my destination is no nearer than it was over an hour ago... The biker asks for another sip of water…
Voices, then a young guy in a green boiler suit appears with the walker. 'Why can't they fall off the bottom of the hill…' the Paramedic says. 'Why is it always at the top?' I feel like saying ''cos life's a shit… can I go now?' But this guy IS a pro. He kneels down, introduces himself and has more conversation in 10 seconds than I've managed in over an hour - he knows his name, address what kind of bike it is, how nippy they are, what adaptation he's got on his own model back home and without pausing for breath he pops open a first aid kit that St.John himself would turn green at. He's got needles and enough drugs to float this kid to hospital and he's going to use 'em. He flicks the end of a needle… and shortly We… yes we, are going to pull his boot off! He confirms he is going to make the lad feel very happy indeed and he's going to hold his leg while I pull his boot off!
'You might feel a little prick..,' says the medic.
The lad grins from ear to ear. In fact we all grin at that one.
He goes on to say he's going to cut his jeans from 'here to here…'
The kid's in good spirits now as the painkillers begin to kick in.
'Are these expensive jeans?' asks the medic.
Again the youth grins. 'No they were a fiver from 'car boot'.
'We could do with something..er', the medic looks round, 'to hang the drip from… a branch or something'.
Me and the other walker couldn't move quick enough. Over the wall making for the dead elm in the next field. My effort was more like an entry for the Mossiest Yule Log Christmas competition, his Thinnest All Season Twig Ever: 1st prize - both turned out quite useless so I resume holding the plastic bag till it empties.
It takes some time for the painkillers to have any real effect.
'Now this is going to hurt' says the paramedic at last. He nods at me to start pulling on the boot…
Mountain Rescue Incident reports make sobering reading! See this incident logged here: Buxton Mountain Rescue - click on call outs - (incident No. 24 in 2004)
And that's how I lost 2hrs on the Sunday…
'Well there is one thing', I say to the other walker as the helicopter disappears into the blue and we head up the track, 'I'll never wish another biker to come off round the next bend again.'
'No,' he replies somberly. 'I know what you mean.'
I usually walk alone, so walking with company seems a bit strained. And this guy walks fast… effortlessly. He has a big stride, and I'm taking 3 steps to his 2. The stark realisation that you really are just a baldy short arse is somewhat demeaning to say the least! Few words are exchanged, but he does tell me he's in engineering, from Sheffield and because he lives on the bus route, finds himself in the Peak most weekends. He doesn't think he will make his last bus now though and has decided to head for Hartington. At his junction he turns off right. We bid a clumsy farewell, I break into a run down the lane towards Monyash… then remember I'm sticking to the route proper this time, aren't I? Damn… and this is the wrong lane - realising that I should have bourne off left. Embarrassed I trot back the 50 yards or so, not daring to look in the direction of my former companion…
The scrambled eggs at the café in Monyash are a delicacy, with herbs of some kind sprinkled over - must remember to ask what sort. Last time on this route I felt quite tired here and sat outside the pub tending a blister… I'm beginning to wonder if there's a formula somewhere here, like BOOTS*MILES/Sq root of socks=BLISTERS or LARGE PERCENTAGE/likelihood thereof. Maybe the extra Vitamin C (600mg per hour) this time out has helped as I realise that I feel no aches or pains at all.
Nobody shouts after me as I head down towards One Ash Grange. 'Are you late?' is a favourite and was offered last time. I miss my turn beside the car park near the Magpie Mine, and have to trot back up to overtake a walking couple for the 2nd time. A cup of tea seems like an unmissable pleasure in charming Bradford Dale - having learnt of the effects of tea and cakes on the success of various fell runners. Unfortunately I have to wait my turn… and that's just to get over the stile! This decision eventually involves passing that same couple a third time. Fortified on tea and fruit cake I turn this time and foolishly state that I must be going about it all wrong as I've passed them twice already. 'Yeah', says the man pointedly, 'you want to try walking instead of running.' I feel it wouldn't be prudent to get further involved in a discussion of pace and so I trot off to re-cross the river before the climb to Robin Hood's Stride.
That twenty past seven deadline still seems a long way off.
In my mind though, it's simple. Soon the road to Winster to cross, lots of small fields and stone squeezer styles - then descend to pretty Bonsall - steep climb up the lane - over the top - small fields and downhill to Matlock Bridge. What could be easier? Still time to take photos... - then to miss my turn in Uppertown… damn. This is due to lack of detail in my photocopied map and a missing footpath sign. Still, drop into Bonsall, up over the hill… I can do this.
I try to get a square frame of the cross...click, and turn... click... the house where my last attempt came to an end - with only a mile and a half to go! Then on, up the narrow walled lane. The steep pull slows me though… careful, get the footpath right… across the fields down into Matlock… just exactly where is that next stile..? Just one more photo… the clocks ticking… I'm checking my watch… I can do this… nearly there. I'm down, cross the road… here's the bridge, there's the roundabout…
And £%&*$#*! there's the #*&$ no.9 bus! I know that's my bus because my brain is registering true… it's disappearing up the road but I can make out a very plain letter: 9… very courteous of the bus company - to put the number on the back so you know you've missed it. Another 30 seconds and I would have been on it. The driver, bless his cottons, is bang on time. Indeed, most punctual. For a moment I toy with the idea of dashing up the steep hill that the bus has to go around with the idea of 'heading it off', but common sense prevails.
D'oh! I forgot to ask what herbs they sprinkled on those scrambled eggs!
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