Lanzarote: Timanfaya Guided Tours

Lanzarote's Timanfaya National Park covers an area of just under twenty square miles on the western side of the island. The Montañas del Fuego (trans. Fire Mountains) lie at its heart and these were at the centre of the six-year long series of eruptions from 1730 to 1736 that altered the course of Lanzarote's history. Huge swathes of fertile agricultural land and nine villages were destroyed, the economy was devastated, and subsequently a large number of the island's inhabitants were forced to emigrate, many of them travelling to Cuba and other parts of the Americas. Incredibly, given the scale and the duration of this cataclysmic event, nobody was killed by these eruptions.

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Lanzarote: Montana del Cuervo

With the majority of Lanzarote's Timanfaya National Park being completely out of bounds to the public*, Montaña del Cuervo (Mountain of the Raven) provides a rare opportunity to venture out into the badlands just outside the park boundary - and in doing so visit one of the island's most significant volcanoes on foot. In effect, you are still guided on this short walk because the route around the caldera is clearly marked and leaving the path is strictly forbidden but you're also free to do it at your own pace and at a time of your own choosing.

Montaña del Cuervo from the start point.

Its modest elevation (1263 feet) belies the important part this volcano played in Lanzarote's history. Over a period of six years, the island was devastated by a series of continuous eruptions that destroyed nine villages and almost 80 square miles of fertile land - and this is where it all began, between 9 and 10 in the evening on 1st September 1730.

When the side of the volcano eventually collapsed, the magma lake within it was unleashed and flowed northwards towards Mancha Blanca, one of many waves of lava that would become a vast sea of volcanic rock. The bulk of the volcanoes that erupted during over this six year period became known collectively as Las Montañas del Fuego, the Mountains of Fire, and they now form the heart of the national park.

Las Montañas del Fuego

We'd walked through some of these badlands previously, when we hiked Caldera Blanca in 2019, but the lava fields there seemed quite different - an expanse of shattered, black rock as far as the eye could see, leavened occasionally by a bright green shrub or pale lichens. Here, though, the wind had shaped drifts of volcanic sand around the rock, creating a softer landscape of varied hues and shadows. It was really beautiful and - sorry, I know it's a cliché when talking about Lanzarote - quite otherworldly.

As you near the base of the volcano, you get a close up view of the two different types of rock that have formed the cone. Around its flanks there lies an accumulation of pyroclasts, individual particles that built up in layers, resulting in a slope so neat you could almost imagine someone comes out to tidy it every morning with a brush and rake. Above this, spatter - rock that was still molten and sticky when it landed -  has flowed and melded together to create a contrasting rampart of twisted lumps and sharp edges around the top of the cone.

You've got two choices at this point: turn right to head directly to the crater interior or turn left to walk the circumference of the volcano. Although the information board advises going anti-clockwise, I'd recommend taking the path to the left if you intend to do the circular route and saving the crater until the end. It's not a long route by any means but the walk back to this point might seem a bit of an anti-climax if you visit the inside of the caldera first.

As you come round the southern part of the path, it's a surprise to see that the mountainside is far more extensive here than you'd expect from the initial approach. If you've been to Lanzarote you'll know it's quite a breezy place, the Trade Winds providing a prevailing NE to SW air current across the island. At Montaña del Cuervo, these winds blew the lightweight pyroclasts to the southwest of the volcano and created another summit on its leeward side.

The original caldera on the right and the "mountain" of pyroclasts on the left.

One of the benefits of Montaña del Cuervo's relatively isolated position in this ocean of lava is that you get extensive views from all the way around its base, both into the national park and in other directions, such as over towards Montaña Guardilama which we had hiked the previous year.

Across the horizon (l to r): Caldera Gaida, Montaña Guardilama and Montaña Diama.

Montaña de Selaño and Pico Partido.

Montaña los Rodeos.

As you make your way back northwest around Montaña del Cuervo, you pass below a saddle between the original caldera and the shadow mountain created by the winds. On your left, the lava fields stretch out all the way to the Mountains of Fire on the horizon.

I wasn't sure what to expect from the crater, as I'd only done minimal research ahead of this walk. When I saw the crag that marks the entrance to the crater ahead of me, however, I was pretty sure I was approaching something quite special.

And so I was. For a start, it's much bigger than you'd expect from the rather squat cone that you see when you're standing in the car park - the floor of the crater is almost as far below you at this entrance as the edges of the caldera are above you. It's worth noting that there's a short, somewhat steep descent on loose ground at this point, so the interior might not be easily accessible to everyone, depending on their mobility.

We spent a good while here admiring the fascinating rock formations and the different colours created by centuries of lichen growth. We probably could have spent longer and we both took loads of pictures. Heading into the crater really was a "wow" moment - I'll only put a few photos on here as a taster, so as not to spoil the element of surprise.

Climbing back out of the caldera, all that remained was for us to retrace our steps to the car park, making a note of the volcanoes dotted around for future possible hikes. There's a fine view of the iconic Montaña Blanca from here, the first volcano that everyone sees when they arrive on the island at Arrecife Airport.

Montaña Blanca

The Walk! Lanzarote guide book says that seeing Montaña del Cuervo is a must for any visitors to the island who want to get a taste of what Lanzarote is all about and we'd definitely agree with that. If you can get to see it, you certainly won't be disappointed.

The only downside to this walk is that Montaña del Cuervo is in the middle of nowhere and isn't served by public transport. So, unless you book onto an excursion that includes it, you do need a car to get there. That said, we did encounter an intrepid young couple who were trying to hitchhike back to civilisation and they eventually succeeded in getting a ride from a passing motorist - not sure I'd like to take that chance though!


* Unless you book onto the Termersana ranger walk or one of the coach trips within its boundaries.

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CLICK HERE  for more walks on Lanzarote and other useful information.

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Date: January 2020

Walk length: 4 km 

Total ascent: 70 metres

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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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A Staffordshire Ramble: Grindon, Milk Hill and the Manifold Way

I've been inspired to do my walks by lots of things - photos, blogs and articles, wanting to explore distant hills I've seen on the horizon - but this is the first time I've planned a route around winning a pizza stone in a raffle.

We'd visited the Christmas Fair in Butterton the previous weekend and were struck by how lovely the countryside around that part of the Peak District was. So when we found out we had to return to the area to collect our prize, it seemed the perfect opportunity to do some exploring at the same time.

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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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Crimpiau, Creigiau Gleision and Llyn Cowlyd

At the eastern end of the Ogwen Valley, above Capel Curig, the sweeping curves of the High Carneddau give way to an untidy jumble of peaks - Crimpiau, Craig Wen and Creigiau Gleision. Of these, only the latter surpasses the 2000 feet threshold to earn itself the status of mountain in Britain but - by way of compensation - you do get two summits above this height along its craggy (and often boggy) ridge.

Pen Llithrig y Wrach, Crimpiau, Craig Wen and Creigiau Gleision just showing in the background.
(Picture from a climb of Moel Siabod a couple of years ago.)

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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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Tryfan

I was in two minds for a while about whether or not to write up this walk as I'd never actually intended to climb Tryfan when I arrived in the Ogwen Valley in April of this year. I don't mean I set out to climb a different mountain and inadvertently found myself eye-to-eye with a seagull at "Adam and Eve" - I won't deny there's a reason why I call my blog "Occasionally Lost" but I've never quite gone that far astray. It was my first time at the top of the iconic Welsh mountain, though, and I suppose that should be marked with at least some sort of post, even if the weather didn't make for great pictures and my circuitous journey there isn't one I'd recommend or want to repeat.

Tryfan.

Our overnight trip to Wales had been booked for several months, for non-walking purposes, and I'd optimistically plotted myself a walk in the Carneddau to do before we returned home. In the morning, however, as we left the Llandudno Travelodge it soon became clear that the day had no intention of being... well, clear. I was determined not to leave Wales without some sort of hike but I was forced to write off the one I'd planned when we arrived at Llyn Ogwen and saw the clag that shrouded the mountain tops to the north of us. The Carneddau traverse was a walk I'd wanted to do since last year and I had no intention of squandering all that effort to wander through the sort of mist that I'd grown used to seeing when I open the curtains at home in the Peak District.

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Sulber, Moughton Scars and Moughton

People who know us - or people who've merely seen us plodding across a hillside in the distance - might be surprised to hear that we've done the Yorkshire Three Peaks. They might be less surprised to learn that we did each of the famous fells on a separate occasion, spread over a period of about five months. That was several years ago now, before I had the blog, but the memory of the breathtaking limestone pavements and escarpments we passed on our way down from Ingleborough was one that lingered in the mind.

We talked about returning to the area to explore several times but it wasn't until last December that we finally got our act together. The walk planned was a relatively short one so we made a leisurely journey up north, stopping off for a cooked breakfast at a picturesque cafe on the way - I won't mention where we ate but the portion-size was in inverse proportion to the eye-watering price. I suppose one consolation was that at least I wasn't left in a digestive stupor afterwards as I had been a week or so before when we walked Moel Eilio - but that only just occurred to me now and did nothing to smooth over my grumbling at the time.

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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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Hopegill Head via Whiteside

In Alfred Wainwright's words the ridge walk over Whiteside is "an exhilarating airy traverse" and it certainly looked it a couple of months ago when I gazed along the crest from Hopegill Head, the summit at the eastern end. On that day I'd been doing a variation of the Coledale Horseshoe and a jaunt down the ridge would have been more than a step or two out of my way unfortunately. I determined though that I needed to return sooner rather than later to experience it myself and the arrival of a high pressure system over the country at the start of October gave me just the excuse I needed to go up to the Lakes.

Grasmoor

It took nearly two and a half hours to get to the parking area at Lanthwaite Green and we were lucky to find the last space, considering it was early afternoon by the time we arrived. Lanthwaite Green is a common grazed by sheep and a cattle grid limits any nomadic tendencies they might have. Once we'd crossed that barrier, we noticed one or two of them either in the lane or standing by its side. None of them seemed to have the least clue about the niceties of the Green Cross Code so we proceeded carefully to the parking spot.

Once out of the car, we didn't have to focus on our woolly friends of course and we could take in the scenery, with Grasmoor the most immediately impressive of the fells around us. When I'd approached Grasmoor from Crag Hill and wandered around the wide, flat summit it had seemed a rather formless, baggy monster of a hill but from Lanthwaite Green its crag-laden western aspect formed a satisfyingly pointy mountain peak.

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Snowdon via Allt Maenderyn and the South Ridge

Leaving the road behind near Bethania.

Following the High Carneddau and the Glyderau, the mighty Snowdon seemed like the natural place to head for my next Welsh walk. 

I'd been wanting to do it for a long time and I hoped that the experience of hiking in the mountain ranges north of Wales' highest peak would set me up for whatever Snowdon threw at me. I wanted something more interesting than a simple slog up a path but I decided Crib Goch was something that I probably shouldn't be doing solo until I had gained more experience of scrambling - no-one wants to be the quivering jelly, clinging to a rock at 3000 feet and getting in everybody else's way.

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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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