The Other Side of Shining Tor: Jenkin Chapel, Todd Brook Valley and Lamaload Reservoir

The Goyt Valley is understandably popular with dedicated walkers and casual visitors alike: it has woodland and rivers, hills and moors, even a picturesque ruined hall - and if you time it right you might come across the welcome sight of an ice cream van in one of the car parks by Errwood Reservoir. Shining Tor, the official highest point of modern Cheshire stands over the Goyt Valley at 1834 feet above sea level. There are expansive views from here across the Cheshire Plain into Wales, over towards Manchester and the Western Pennines, and - more immediately - down into the large, natural basin of heath and farmland that forms the Todd Brook Valley on its western side.

Cats Tor (right)

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Kinder East and the Vale of Edale

We've been trying to vary some of our regular walking routes recently by exploring footpaths and trails that we haven't ventured along before. When I thought about our local "mountain", Kinder Scout,  I realised I've become quite the creature of habit, relying on the same routes up and down and paying scant attention to the other paths that flow on and around the plateau like streams. This walk was the first "varied" route we did and the novelties (for us) were the path that branches off from the Pennine Way up onto Broadlee-Bank Tor and the public rights of way that run along the Vale of Edale below the south eastern edge of the Kinder plateau.

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Baslow Edge and Birchen Edge

On its north-eastern side, a long chain of gritstone escarpments stands watch over the Derwent Valley like a series of natural ramparts. Their reach extends from the tracts of moorland at the heart of the Dark Peak to the cultivated landscapes of Chatsworth in the White Peak. I've walked the northern edges many a time but I'd never ventured south of Curbar Edge so a visit to that area had been overdue for a long time.

Heading onto Baslow Edge.

In mid-March 2018* there was a relatively mild and dry interlude between the waves of snow and ice that had washed over Derbyshire that winter, and this seemed the perfect opportunity for heading over that way to explore.

We parked up at Curbar Gap and walked back down the lane to where a gate gives access to Baslow Edge. A broad track leads due south from the gate but there is an "unofficial" path, not marked on the map, that closely follows the rocky edge, affording better views and more interesting terrain.

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Kinder Scout: the River Kinder and Kinder Gates

Intrepid explorers walking the length of the world's great rivers has become something of a cultural phenomenon in recent years - think Ed Stafford trekking along the course of the Amazon for almost two-and-a-half years or Levison Wood hiking the Nile from its origin in the Nyungwe Forest, Rwanda to the Egyptian shores of the Mediterranean.

With adventures like these in mind it's little wonder that we became suddenly inspired to walk the River Kinder a couple of weeks ago, from its source deep in the Peak District plateau to... Well, only as far as the Downfall actually, because we wanted a nice circular route that didn't involve traipsing downhill and back up again. And we didn't quite walk it from its source, to be honest, because - rather like the Nile - there are several indistinct points at which its waters bubble up from the ground and start their journey to the sea. If we'd put more time and effort in to complete the River Kinder's entire three-mile course, no doubt I'd have a book deal and probably my own TV show by now but we didn't so you'll have to make do with another verbose blog post and some occasionally over-exposed photos.

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Pen Llithrig y Wrach and Pen yr Helgi Du

Although I've done several walks in the Carneddau mountains over the past couple of years, Pen Llithrig y Wrach has somehow always eluded me - either by not fitting conveniently into a route or by making the hike unfeasibly long for my short legs. Its profile is a striking one from various viewpoints, not least if you're looking at it from the south: from that angle it rises proudly between the extended ridge (Y Braich) that leads to Pen Yr Helgi Du in the west and the jumble of crags that make up Creigiau Gleision in the east. This makes for an inviting and striking prominence that is satisfyingly pointy. It's been suggested that the resemblance of Pen Llithrig y Wrach's profile to a witch's hat lies behind its colourful name, which translates into English as "Slippery Peak of the Witch", but no-one seems to know for sure if that's the case.

Pen Llithrig y Wrach (left), viewed from Moel Siabod in 2015.

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A Circular Walk from Peak Forest to Castleton

As I type this opening paragraph, the sun is streaming through the window, the skies are the most beautiful shade of blue and I'm being informed on a regular basis by Facebook and Twitter users alike that today is the vernal equinox. It certainly didn't feel like the first day of spring was only hours away when I ventured out on a walk above the Hope Valley yesterday. It's true that Mam Tor did stand resplendently green in the sunshine above Castleton - but that was because the unrelenting and bitter wind of the past few days had blown all the snow off its exposed slopes and not because of a seasonal thaw.

The wind's handiwork was apparent as I set off up a farm lane from Peak Forest, where huge drifts of powdery snow had formed along the wall. The pristine white whorls and curves and cornices in miniature were fascinating to look at, almost like works of art, and these were the first of many I was to encounter that day.

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Stanton Moor and Oaker Hill

We'd originally planned to go to Wales overnight last weekend, lured by the forecast of fine weather, but car trouble put a stop to that. Assured the repairs would be complete by Saturday lunchtime, we scouted around for a short walk locally and settled on Stanton Moor, which we'd never visited before. I plotted a circular route from Rowsley which would take us up and over the moor, with an easy flat return journey along the Derwent Valley - although I couldn't resist tagging on another little hill at the far end before we'd begin the walk back.

Crossing the Wye.

As you travel along the A6 from Bakewell to Rowsley, there's a side road on the right, just after the Grouse and Claret, which gives you access to a free car park. Seemingly managed by the council, it doesn't appear on the OS Map or Google Maps but it's very handy, a decent size and well-worth making a note of if you're planning a walk in the area. We parked here and set off back along the main road, before taking a left turn opposite The Peacock, a handsome old inn that was originally a seventeenth century manor house. Walking past the village school and Caudwell's Mill, we crossed the River Wye and finally found ourselves on a lane surrounded by farmland.

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Howden Moors - Cut Gate, Margery Hill and Howden Edge

When I did my second walk on Howden Moors a couple of months ago, I was so taken with the area I plotted a third walk there soon after I got home. This took in another clough on the eastern side of the Upper Derwent Valley, followed by Margery Hill and Howden Edge. I'd walked these two summits last year as part of a longer trip but Rich hadn't, and I thought the terrain and views would appeal to him. Taking a punt on the forecast - 20% chance of rain - proved to be a mistake, though, and we spent most of the walk in drizzle and mist. Even during the dry intervals there was little to see or photograph and it became clear that we'd need to return on a better day to do the route justice.

At the summit of Margery Hill in September.

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Shropshire Hills: Long Mynd

I've only been to Shropshire a few times and none of those trips involved any serious walking, having been mostly devoted to sight-seeing in Much Wenlock and Ironbridge. We live not far from Shining Tor, which was one of our regular spots for short evening walks over the summer, and The Wrekin became something to look out for as the sun began to set.

The Wrekin from Shining Tor.

It was usually rather indistinct so far south-west across the Cheshire and North Shropshire Plains but it was still a singular presence on the horizon, enough to pique my interest in exploring the Shropshire Hills.

An unusually cheap hotel deal in Telford allowed us to extend the proposed day trip into an overnight stay and thus one walk became two - which in turn meant two new OS maps to add to the collection and what's not to like about that? After an early and turbulent start (the latter mainly due to me "losing" my phone twice in quick succession as we were about to leave the house), we set off into the weekend. The remnants of Hurricane Ophelia were heading across the Atlantic but we'd been promised a brief oasis of mostly fine conditions in Shropshire before the weather system made landfall.

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Lantern Pike, Harry Hut and Mill Hill

Although I've visited Hayfield many times over the years and enjoyed its charming buildings and fine selection of ale houses, I have to admit that in terms of hill-walking I've always thought of it as a gateway to Kinder Scout and not really considered what else it has to offer. Thankfully, my eyes were opened this summer when I had a spare half-day to go for a hike, slap bang in the middle of what had been excitedly trending on Twitter as #heatwaveuk.

The Sett Valley Trail.

(For anyone reading this from outside the UK, a heatwave in Britain is usually a comically short length of time with fairly regular sunshine and what would be considered mild-to-normal summertime temperatures anywhere else in our planet's temperate zones.)

Wanting to find somewhere new to walk that was close by before the skies clouded over and the drizzle recommenced, I recalled the hills we'd so often seen from the road between Glossop and Hayfield. Opening up OS Maps, I rattled out a circular route up onto them from the Sett Valley Trail, which begins (or ends, depending on your perspective) by Hayfield's bus station, and set off to explore.

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Burbage Edge and the Upper Goyt Valley

Since we moved to the High Peak area, the hills to the west of Buxton have become a favourite area of mine for walking. Easily accessible from the town centre, the variety of terrain they provide is impressive - farmland, open moors, woodland and reservoir walking are all on offer, and these can be combined to make a full day's outing or simply a ramble of a couple of hours if time is short. The area is rich in history and I have written about some of that in a previous blog post - see here - so I'll try to avoid repeating myself in this trip report.

With all this in mind, these hills were a natural choice when I found myself with a spare afternoon to get outside last week. The forecast wasn't too inspiring but I was motivated to take a punt on the sunny spells it'd half-promised by the dreary weekend of drizzle and grey mist we'd just had.

Dark skies as I left Buxton behind.

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Howden Moors - Howden Dean, Back Tor and Lost Lad

This walk is something of a follow-up to one I did on Howden Moors around a year ago, which took in Outer Edge and Margery Hill. As I made my return journey to the Upper Derwent Valley reservoirs via Howden Edge (confusingly, several parts of the Derwent watershed seem to bear this name) and Nether Hey, a large clough to the south east caught my eye. From my vantage point, I could see there was a clear path following the course of this great fold in the landscape.

Abbey Brook Clough from my walk last year.

On the map the terrain looked interesting and it was, I decided a couple of weeks ago, high time I found out for myself what lay hidden within this winding valley.

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Foel Fadian

Foel Fadian is a hill of relatively small prominence on the fringe of the Cambrian Mountains in mid-Wales. North of its summit, the ground drops away into the fertile farmland of the Dyfi Valley and rises again onto the southern face of Cadair Idris, which stands on the horizon like a fortress guarding the entrance to Snowdonia. To the south, the Cambrian Mountains themselves stretch out before you, vast rolling uplands of moor and heath that have the curious distinction of forming the first proposed National Park to be rejected in England and Wales.

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Gun - odd name, small hill, big views.

"An undistinguished hill at the southern end of the Peak District" is the rather sad Wikipedia description of Gun, a small, raised patch of heather moorland in north Staffordshire. And I suppose it does pale in comparison to the hills around it - The Cloud stands proud and distinct over the Cheshire plain to the west;  in the north, the rolling heights of Axe Edge Moor and and Shining Tor form a backdrop to Shutingsloe, the ambitiously-nicknamed "Cheshire Matterhorn" that looks every bit as pointy and properly hill-like as Gun signally fails to do; while to the east of our modest and flat-topped mound, Hen Cloud, Ramshaw Rocks and The Roaches provide a dramatic display of jagged rocks and ridges that draw walkers and climbers alike. On a clear day - and even through an evening haze such as on our visit yesterday - The Wrekin can be made out on the horizon, some forty miles away to the south east, its presence in Shropshire a thumbed-nose to Gun from afar, "See, this is what a real hill looks like!"

But it's exactly those vistas that make this quiet, oddly-named hill such a gem. If you live close enough or you're visiting the White Peak area, Gun makes for an ideal short stroll with rewards far in excess of the effort or time you put in to walk it. What's more, there's roadside parking on its south-western aspect and the farmland around it is criss-crossed with public footpaths, meaning you can also easily incorporate it into a longer day walk if you choose.

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Wild Moor and Burbage Edge

Although the hills to the west of Buxton, with their sheep, stables and copses, have an air of rural respectability their heights conceal a landscape of much wilder-looking topography. Indeed, one part of this hidden world is actually named Wild Moor, a stark vista that unfolds before you from the top of the hills. Patches of marsh jostle below slopes of coarse moorland grass and heather; and streams, some of them barely a trickle, strive to find a mazy route through it all to the Goyt Valley on the moor's far side.

Most, if not all, of the moorland in Northern England is the product of human deforestation thousands of years ago, of course, and much of it is now managed to take advantage of the money-making opportunities driven grouse shooting provides. Wild Moor has been subject to human intervention more than many such landscapes over the years. Even so, when I surveyed the expansive rolling grass ahead of me from the almost-comically neat and understated gate on its edge, I did get a little thrill of anticipation - as though I was about to step into an untouched wilderness.

Gateway to a different world...

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Combs Moss

Combs Moss is a relatively small and distinct upland area to the west of the Peak District National Park. On its north western fringes, gritstone escarpments tower above the village from which it derives its name and mark it out as a junior relation of the region's most notable and much larger moorland plateaux, Kinder and Bleaklow. In fact, its parent peak is listed as Shining Tor and Shining Tor's parent peak as Kinder, which I suppose makes it the grandchild of Derbyshire's celebrated highest summit. Junior it might be but I definitely felt the familial resemblance on a surprisingly tough walk around its perimeter a few weeks ago.

Combs Moss across the Blackbrook Valley, from a previous walk.

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Howden Moors - Crow Stones, Outer Edge and Margery Hill

The long trail that winds around the Derwent and Howden reservoirs from the visitor centre at Fairholmes is a popular one. Even on a weekday you're likely to pass friends out for a stroll, hikers with poles and backpacks, families on foot and families on bikes, their giddy children and still giddier dogs in tow; and then there are the fitness enthusiasts - friendly joggers that nod and smile, and focused runners, to whom you're just a blur on the periphery of vision. Write them all down on a postcard and most days perhaps you'd be able to tick them off and call "House!" in a game of Reservoir Bingo. You'd scarcely believe that just a few hundred feet above this busy spot lies some of the least-visited moorland in the Dark Peak.

Derwent Reservoir Dam.

That swathe of undulating heather and peat, its high edges crumpled by deep cloughs, is Howden Moor. I decided to head here a few days after my last visit to Bleaklow, which had ended on a dispiriting note with the crossing of Harrop Moss. I felt certain that it would restore my faith in the moorland landscapes of the Peak District and I wasn't to be disappointed.

Fairholmes was my starting point and I passed the impressive Derwent Reservoir Dam to join the trail on the eastern side of the reservoir. I'd managed to connive a lift here, as I don't drive, and was setting off around lunch time. It was a warm autumn day and though the incline of the path is barely perceptible it didn't take long for my outer shell to come off in the heat.  The sunshine had drawn people out - I exchanged greetings with them as we passed each other and had to disappoint one runner who called back over her shoulder with an air of sudden, delighted recognition, "Oh, are you Roy?"

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Bleaklow - Wain Stones, Hern Stones and a pathless moor

With a spare day to go walking and a reasonable weather forecast yesterday, the alluring wilderness of Bleaklow was calling out to me. I'm not one to just head into the hills and see where my feet take me, though I will wander off course to explore. I like to have a route plotted out so I jumped on OS Maps and hastily strung together a convoluted trip that would take in features I'd never visited on the western fringes of the massive plateau. Butties made, flask and water bottles filled, I headed out for the train to Hadfield.

Nature's subdued colour palette as I walked the Longdendale Trail.

I've walked the Longdendale Trail several times. The last time was in the dark after a knee injury slowed my progress off Bleaklow significantly but prior to that it was in the full flow of spring, when blossom scented the air and the sides of the path were dabbed with splashes of colour from wildflowers. Today, with autumn in the air, there was almost a sepia note to the landscape around me, and I found the muted greens and browns a bit of a dispiriting start to my day. It was around 7.30 am when I left the train station and even an hour later, when I reached the Pennine Way by Torside Reservoir, there was mist hanging over the valley in the direction of Woodhead.

It certainly wasn't cold though and I'd taken my soft shell off by now and stowed it away. I'd paused to do so at a convenient wooden bench along the trail but was driven away cursing, jacket in one hand and open backpack swinging crazily in the other, by a territorial wasp that was outraged at my making temporary use of his facilities. Perhaps the end of summer and the increasingly dark mornings had made him irritable. Sitting here now, bleary-eyed and reaching for my second mug of builders' tea, I can relate, even if I wasn't feeling very sympathetic at the time.

Joining the Pennine Way at the bottom of Torside Clough.

There were still traces of mist as I looked east towards Woodhead.

The Pennine Way traces the south-western side of Torside Clough. I think it's one of the most appealing routes on or off Bleaklow and, as a bonus, it's one that doesn't make any great challenges in terms of negotiation or exertion. The initial section is quite a steep pull up, it's true, and I was glad to be only in a t-shirt for this, but that's soon over and from then on the path's ascent is relatively gentle - although there are some minor ups-and-downs along the way. It's best to not get too carried away here, as I once discovered, for the rocks and mud underfoot can be treacherously slippy and there are plenty of loose stones waiting to twist an unwary ankle or, in my case, knee. All in all though, it makes for an easy walk up with great views.

Long Gutter Edge below Torside Naze across the clough.

Looking up into Torside Clough.

A look back down from further along the Pennine Way.

Nearing the head of Torside Clough.

At the head of the clough there's a ford, where two brooks meet on their way down from the peat hags and livid green mosses of the moorland above; I followed the Pennine Way east here, alongside Wildboar Grain, but noted with satisfaction the clear path that led to the ford alongside the other stream - my route involved me returning via this path later on.

My route back to the Pennine Way would follow a path above this clough.

The ford at the head of Torside Clough.

The Pennine Way keeps left of this stream, Wildboar Grain.

The sunlight catches Harrop Moss and Glossop Low to the west,
looking back from the Pennine Way.

The weather was improving steadily as I walked from here up to Bleaklow Head, not a strenuous task by any means. Behind me, blue skies began to dominate the skies above the flat upland of Harrop Moss and Peaknaze Moor. Ahead the morning sunlight was still strained through a layer of low cloud but it was surprisingly strong even so; fortunately, out of the clough, there was a breeze which prevented the heat from being too energy-sapping.

I gave the password to the sheep that guarded Bleaklow Head and, with his leave, made my way to the cairn and post, which always strikes me as a rather understated marker for such a huge and hugely fascinating hill. Job done, the sheep was having a sit down at his station when I looked back - either that or his legs had sunk into the peat mound he'd been standing on.

"Who goes there?"

"Don't ask me, I'm on my break..."

I wandered around a little bit and climbed onto one of the hags near the cairn. The light wasn't proving conducive to long-range photographs but it did cast an otherworldly glow over the plateau to the north east. Sadly my picture doesn't come anywhere near to capturing how magical the waves of grass looked in reality.

To the north east, Bleaklow was bathed in light.

Next stop was the Wain Stones, which I'd never visited before. Also sometimes referred to as the "Kissing Stones", for obvious reasons if you look at them from the right position, they have been much photographed over the years by walkers and professional photgraphers alike. I took a couple of snaps myself, of course, before sitting down for a coffee and some Wine Gums behind the least amorous of the rocks. The wind had picked up now and I was feeling a bit chilly, despite the hot drink, so I put my jacket back on.

Looking back to Bleaklow Head as I walked to the Wain Stones.

The Wainstones - I had a coffee break by the stand-offish Wainstone on the left.

The "kissing stones".

Looking south towards the Higher Shelf Stones in the distance.

The Hern Stones.

From my improvised seat, I could see the Hern Stones, another gritstone outcrop that had been weathered over the centuries into a fantastical natural sculpture. There was a footpath shown on the OS map, which was - just - visible on the ground too and I set off along it, on a bog-trotting journey south.

I kept an eye out for a further path leading off from this one halfway to the Hern Stones - this was to be my route back to the top of Torside Clough. There was nothing to see and the path I was on frequently disappeared itself or split into increasingly indistinct trails made by people trying to negotiate the wet crossing.

By some miracle, I arrived at the Hern Stones with my boots dry on the inside. They make for quite a handsome rock formation and I think I preferred them to the Wain Stones, though perhaps over-familiarity with the latter from photos had blunted my enthusiasm. As I was about to leave, another walker appeared from the same direction as I'd come, the first person I'd seen since I first left the Longdendale Trail a couple of hours before. We briefly exchanged greetings before I retraced my steps across the wet moor and he and his dog - a handsome, glossy black animal called Jess - continued south across Shelf Moor.

The Hern Stones.

The Hern Stones.

Having reached the supposed junction with the path heading west across Shelf Moss, I realised that this was going to be an off-piste walk for a while. If there ever was a path here, it's obviously disappeared from lack of use and I didn't see a single boot print for a good while. Visibility was good enough for me to see where I was heading and I used the GPS on my phone to periodically check I was still following the black dashes on the map. It was slow going, though, forcing my way through overgrown sheep-trods in the heather and, where I could, following the course of the one of the many, extended groughs that curve their way through the peat towards Torside Clough.

Crossing Shelf Moss.

Crossing Shelf Moss.

Back on track - for reference, the path is the waterway on the left...

To my surprise and relief, the ground was dry all around here, even in those deep groughs. It would have been pretty unpleasant if the land was as boggy as the walk to the Hern Stones. Some of the passages through the peat were sandy and rocky, others were bright green with moss, which I tried (successfully) to avoid treading on as I picked my way across the moor.

Eventually, the semblance of a trail appeared as I came to the side of the stream that would meet up with Wildboar Grain. It became more pronounced the closer I got to Torside Clough, though even high above the brook it was quite waterlogged in places. My progress here was quicker than it felt at the time: looking down on the confluence of two streams, I said to myself how picturesque it looked before I suddenly realised I'd already arrived back at the ford I'd crossed an hour or so previously.

Crossing Harrop Moss.

I rejoined the Pennine Way here for a short while, heading back along the edge of Torside Clough in a reversal of my route earlier. Eventually I reached a stone-built grouse butt called "The Pulpit", which is impossible to miss.

At this point I climbed up a slippery, peat slope to join another path that heads west across Harrop Moss. This is a grouse-shooting moor and the evidence of it was all around - grey patches where the heather had been burned, grouse butts and wooden walkways across the widest groughs.

These bridges and boards were old and weathered and in a state of disrepair and I proceeded cautiously: one board had sunk at least ankle-deep in the dank, blackened water it covered and another bridge was falling apart, both the handrail and the boards underfoot. Old and broken planks of wood lay strewn across the peat and, frankly, the whole place looked a bit of a mess; considering the sums people pay to grouse-shoot, I would have thought the people managing the area would at least ensure the boardwalks were maintained safely.

The most interesting feature, just after leaving the Pennine Way, was Torside Castle - not some decrepit Gothic pile, wreathed in mist and bats, but the remains of a Bronze Age fort. The earthworks are covered in moorland foliage now but it is a large structure and stands out distinctly from the upland on which it sits.

Torside Castle

The cairn at the top of Glossop Low.

One advantage of the grouse shooting that occurs here is that the path I was on was perfectly clear and easy to follow, something I appreciated all the more after dragging my sorry feet across a mile or more of peat, rock and heather just recently. I was heading  for Glossop Low, which paradoxically enough is the name awarded to one of the hills high above Glossop, and I could see pretty much my entire journey cutting a line through the moorland ahead of me.

The upper slopes of Glossop Low were grassier and firm underfoot. As I arrived at the Glossop Low Hut - the four remaining corners of what must have once been a fine-looking, stone shooting cabin - a farmer drew up nearby in his truck. He got out with two collies and proceeded to round up some startled-looking sheep, who until then had been grazing mindlessly all over the summit. Hungry and not wanting to get in the way, I headed uphill to the cairn and sat there to watch while I ate my lunch. It took a while for him to go about his business but I suddenly felt quite tired (I hadn't slept well the night before) so I was grateful for the rest.

Glossop Low Hut.

"I wonder why we've been asked to meet here?"

Cock Hill trig column.

My walk was all-but-over now. Once the farmer and his livestock had disappeared, I followed a narrow but clear path south-west to Cock Hill. It was easy walking and down hill so I found myself at the trig point before I knew it. I could see Glossop below, sheltered by the hills and moors around it, and in the immediate vicinity were the remains of what must have been a decent-sized quarry back in the day. All that remains now is a curious landscape of grass humps and sheered off rocks. I briefly toyed with the idea of going down to explore more before taking the lazy option and continuing along the path above the abandoned workings.

I could see a walled lane below, Charles Lane, which was my route into Glossop and which I'd seen described as "a charming walled lane" somewhere online. It kept its charms well-hidden yesterday, however: running down the centre was a dank ditch, full of coarse grass, while the semblance of a path was a ribbon of mud on a small but steep bank between the ditch and the broken stone wall.

Looking back up to the quarries.

Charles Lane.

It seemed to go on for a long while, though the lane became more lane-like once I'd passed a couple of tree plantations on my right. I wasn't particularly enjoying this part of the walk but the wind in the trees sounded like waves breaking on a shore in the distance and this cheered me up a little.

Eventually, I came to the outskirts of Old Glossop and it was an uneventful stroll to the railway station from here. It was a bit of a mixed day, perhaps because I was tired from only having had a few hours sleep but also because I'd found Harrop Moss rather depressing. I love walking across the moors, they're such exhilarating, life-filled places but Harrop Moss had seemed dour, colourless and a mess with all the broken boards littering the peat; it was very much what most people's idea of a moor is like if they've never visited one. I can't see myself returning to Cock Hill or Harrop Moss any time soon but I did really enjoy visiting the Wain and Hern Stones, and Bleaklow itself was as wild and awe-inspiring as ever of course.

Date: September 2016

Walk length: 19.5 km

Total ascent: 675 metres

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Axe Edge Moor via Three Shire Heads

Flash. The old school is the white building on the left.

It's always a nice feeling to finally get to a location that's been beckoning to you from photographs and walking sites for many years and last week I managed to tick off visiting Three Shire Heads on my bucket list. 

I'd attempted the walk earlier this year with Rich, setting off from Flash in Staffordshire (Britain's highest village it is claimed, though not without dispute), but we'd had to abandon our plans partway along due to flooding. 

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Bleaklow to Crook Hill

Joining the Pennine Way at Snake Pass summit.

Incidental footpaths that wander off from the side of my route always fascinate me and one that I noticed on my trip up onto Bleaklow last December had played on my mind since. I had been walking north on the Pennine Way and crossing the head of Hern Clough when I noticed a narrow trail - really barely more than a sheep trod in places - winding its way east, above the course of the stream. I wanted to explore but I was conscious that I had already extended my planned route to take in Bleaklow Head so I stuck to my course and made a mental note to look it up on the map later.

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