THE GREAT RIDGE

A brilliantly sunny day at home boded well but driving towards Castleton the clouds gathered, the sun disappeared and the windscreen wipers came on. Mam Tor, our destination, was hidden by the murk.

We meet in Castleton's car park (good loos) and we're both in cropped grousers anticipating good weather. Ah well.

We don't stay in Castleton but drive up the road to park near Winnat's Pass which will be closer to our finishing point. The parking here is free on non-holiday weekdays too.



Togged up against the weather, fleeces and jumpers, we set off in the drizzle. There are plenty of school trips about today, a sure sign that it's coming to the end of the school year and the teachers want the kids out of the way. We pass the old entrance to the Odin Mine on our left looking very Tolkein-ish and we continue along the road which eventually disappears thanks to the gradual disintegration of the Shivering Mountain as Mam Tor is known (though we think it's shivering because of the cold).



We don't follow the line of the old road but veer onto the right hand path which skirts Mam Farm and heads up to Hollins Cross. It's warmed up by now so we take off our top layers and continue our rambling discussion on proms, concerts, fashion, art and all the things that concern two intellectual women like ourselves!



Before we reach Hollins Cross the sun makes an appearance - yippee - but so does a crowd of school kids on a collision course with us on another path. We pause to let them, and their harassed looking teachers, get out of the way before heading up to the cross to enjoy the views. Edale has opened up below us with Grindslow Knott featuring prominently but with wonderful views across the Kinder range.

We decide to sit down for a coffee and a chat. There's no rush as we're making excellent time. Naturally our talk turns to food, all the good things we've been eating (and shouldn't have) and all the things we want (but won't because we're good - honest). Cream buns, chocolate, heavy salads, cakes - there's only one way to describe this. Food Porn.

We pick ourselves up, shake ourselves off and set off towards the peak that is Mam Tor. The ridge path is paved because it is so well walked making it resemble a Roman Road. Last time we were here the path was swarming with ants, this time its swarming with school kids as well as plenty of other walkers enjoying the day.

It's windier and cooler as we near the top of Mam Tor, which is the site of an Iron Age hill fort, and as we approach the top point we notice that in the cobbles some wonderful bronze plaques
have bee set into them each one depicting a different aspect of Iron Age life: a round house, a sword, a plough, a mask, a shield and a torq.

It's hard to imagine life up here a couple of thousand years ago, but it is clearly a brilliantly defensible position and the hand-dug ramparts - still clearly visible in parts - are and amazing feat of human endeavour and engineering. The 360 degree panorama certainly means that no enemies would be able to creep up unannounced and the chieftain would feel as though he was the lord of all he surveyed.

We enjoy the views along the Great Ridge to Hollins Cross, Back Tor, Lose Hill and beyond to the triangular mound of Win Hill. Beyond Stanage Edge stretches for miles. Sweeping around we see the ever-intrusive blot of the cement works - surely the ugliest eyesore in the Peak District - then Peveril Castle and Winnats Pass before skimming the flattened landscape heading towards Sparrowpit and Chapel en le Frith before finding Rushup Edge and the undulations of the Kinder Range. What a view!

We go downhill to avoid the wind and find somewhere for lunch, at last settling on Mam Tor's flanks. We break out the food which is mundane, until we reach the buns. This is hard-core food porn so feel free to avert your eyes. Shortcake pastry cases filled with a creamy custard and topped with fresh strawberries. They smell and taste of summer and are eaten in reverential - if slightly guilty - silence. We wait a while before drinking the coffee as we want to savour the lingering taste of summer for as long as possible.

All is bliss until I'm either stung or bitten on the palm of my hand by some vengeful insect which leaves me we a black bruise reminiscent of Jack Sparrow's black spot in Pirates of the Caribbean. I shan't be taking any boat trips for a while.

We head downhill, cross the road and skirt the inappropriately named Windy Knoll before heading down Winnat's Pass. Looking back, Mam Tor seems impossibly high.

The first part of Winnat's Pass is a bit of a trial as we have to share the road with cars, but once over the cattle grip we can go off road where we scramble down the rocks, pause to sniff the wild thyme and look at the flora. From here its a wide grassy slope with the magnificent rock formations towering above us on either side. The rocks contain fossils from the time all this was beneath an ancient sea. It's hard to imagine it. Somewhere above us is the so-called Lovers' Leap, but it's hard to tell which one you have to jump off, they all look pretty lethal.

By the time we reach the Speedwell Cavern car park there are loads of cars and people about, and all we have to do is hop across the fields to our cars. Despite the grim early start the day has turned out well and we've even ended up with a bit of a suntan to show for it.

LADYBOWER - IN SEARCH OF BLUEBELLS

It's hard to believe that it has been three weeks since our last walk with holidays and other events interrupting our summer, but at last we've arrived at Ladybower for our planned stroll amongst the bluebells. Except that the bluebells are all but finished for this year.

Still, we set off in hope on this gloriously sunny day. There haven't been too many of these so far this year - the ones we have enjoyed have tended to arrive by stealth, then sidle away quickly - but today is set to be a good one. Sun cream and sunglasses weather.

This is an easy circuit around the northern arm of Ladybower. It's a saunter rather than a walk, an amble with no need for the map.

Although we don't park at Fairholmes we do make use of the facilities as we set off (well maintained loos) dodging the multitude of ducks congregating in the hope of crumbs. We follow the road that runs at the base of the dam and continues along the eastern side of the reservoir. On the map Derwent village is still marked and where there was once a thriving community all that remains are a few houses that would have been on higher ground.

There are quite a few walkers about, and some cyclists, but we barely notice them as we have a lot to talk about. Plenty has happened over the last three weeks; holidays, exams, successes, failures so we're occupied quite happily.

We're making very good progress despite our ambling pace so we find ourselves a comfortable spot at the side of the water and an apple. (Note: healthy snack!)
We watch a duck with her four gorgeous fluffy ducklings. The mother spends some time chasing off a persistent male before returning to her unconcerned brood.

The sun is warm and it's very tempting to sit here all day but we decide that we'll 'lunch' on the other side of the reservoir so we hoist our rucksacks back on and set off again.

The sun is fierce now and all shade is welcome. It's a good job we had the suncream handy. When we reach the bridge we have a brief pause as we try (with only limited success) to obtain a mobile phone signal, then we watch the swallows skimming the surface of the water for insects.

On the western side of the reservoir we walk along the broad, sheep-grazed grass which is littered with goose feathers, but soon we're into the welcome shade of the woods. We discuss the various merits of spanish toast, bruschetta, ginger and rhubarb cake and honey cake - a sure sign that we're in need of food.

Luckily we don't have far to go before a bench presents itself in a patch of dappled shade. We've eaten here before (in the pouring rain) but today there are no complaints about the weather. Even the seat has been renewed. They must have known we were coming. Our lunch is simple but followed by strawberry and cream scones - so good they have to have their photos taken before they're demolished. Coffee follows - we're a civilised pair - whilst we enjoy the views across the water. There are lots of people lounging on the banks now.


We move on and at last are rewarded with bluebells, enough to make a pleasant blue haze beneath the trees although, admittedly, it isn't as good a show as last year when we arrived to see them earlier. Nevertheless, photographs are taken for proof.

A rattling off to our right alerts us to a squirrel in the wood. After a while we catch sight of him (or her) running up a tree trunk. What a size! A giant amongst squirrels with a long plume of a tail.

Checking the time we realise that we have taken far long than we intended, and are now running late. Typical. Knowing we had time to spare has meant that we've walked slowly and had plenty of stops, but having to up the pace at the end isn't too much of a strain given the overall ease of the walk. Before we finish though there is time for another photo where the light slants magically through the trees. Perfect.

EDALE, GRINDSBROOK CLOUGH, KINDER PLATEAU, GRINDSLOW KNOLL

What a fantastic day. Clear skies, sunshine and temperatures well into the 20s. It couldn't be better for our walk.

We love coming to Edale but our outings here tend to be restricted. Long days are needed because we have a long drive to reach here and can only make it when school timetables and extra-curricular activities allow. Today luck was on our side.

The car park at Edale is spacious, with loads of room first thing in the morning, so why does someone have to park right beside me? I give them one of my special looks, but I don't think they notice. This is a pay and display car park but today there's no ticket machine. It had, apparently, been stolen to be replaced by a poor woman cooped up in a shed peering out glumly at the sunshine. Perhaps she'll be able to get her own back later by doling out parking fines to those who have outstayed their ticket times.

We pay our money and set off, not even having to bother pulling on jumpers or coats - a most unusual occurrence. Walking through Edale village we catch up on a week's worth of news and gossip, and spy some bluebells in the hedge bottom. No doubt the sunshine has brought them out making us wonder if our bluebell foray in a couple of weeks will be over before we start.

At the end of the road we veer to the right and descend into the cool wooded gloom to cross the bridge over Grinds Brook before climbing smartly up to the other side and into a wide open field. This feels like the start of the walk with the large slabs of stone underfoot to point the way - and prevent excessive erosion.
The temperature is creeping up and as we pause to drink from our water bottles we see the deep scar of a path running down from Grindslow Knoll. We can't remember it being so prominent last time we'd walked here.

This first part of the walk is gentle enough, the slight incline sufficient to warm up the muscles without too much effort. We amble through a copse of trees then cross the small bridge straddling the stream that falls down from Golden Clough. There's a path here, straight up to Nether Tor, but we reckon it must be pretty tough on the leg muscles. We allow a couple to pass us, him with the rucksack, her unencumbered, and I note with envy that it doesn't work that way in my household, quite the opposite, Equality certainly has some downsides.

Here the path is relatively smooth as it follows the brook, albeit on a higher level, and with the continuous steady uphill slope that is so much a part of this valley. The brook is beautiful today, the fresh green Spring growth around it, small frothy waterfalls and deep, inviting plunge pools - especially tempting as the temperature continues to rise.

At the first rough, rocky section we take the obvious path to the left which leads to the brook. Mistake. After scrambling, clambering, rock hopping and swapping from side to side numerous times we manage to recall having been on a higher, easier right hand path in the past. We hadn't spotted it - we hadn't even looked for it - so we're forced into doing impressions of Lara Croft instead.

Eventually we reach an easy section again and, looking back, are surprised at how high we've actually climbed with relatively little effort. Here the brook widens as it cuts through a section of shale. Huge slabs of rock are laying in the water looking very welcoming. However, this is where the walking becomes a little harder.

We're climbing obviously now, and there are rocks and boulders to negotiate. We decide to put on sun cream, a sensible precaution, then carry on upwards. We allow a young couple to pass us, they've been following us quite a way, and PC decides to try the route they've taken although discovers that it isn't quite as easy as she thought. Taking consolation we decide that they probably won't find it half so easy when they have another 25 years on their backs!

We keep pausing, not for breath (although that is a bonus), but to enjoy the ever widening views down the valley which we know will be lost soon. The heat haze doesn't help photo quality, but we know it all looks spectacular.

Soon we hit the part that turns into an unrelenting upward scramble. PC abandons her walking poles as they keep getting in the way; hands are needed here, and we forge on up. It isn't quite as bad as it looks, or as we remember, and every step takes us higher and closer to our goal. As I reach the plateau PC follows behind with the immortal words, "Are we there yet?" Yes, we are, and it's wonderful.
We stop to admire the view then walk on to the aptly named Mushroom Stone before striking away from the path to find somewhere to eat lunch. There are quite a few people up here today, hardly surprising. The weather, the views and the sheer exhilaration are not to be missed. Thank goodness we can come in the week, though. On a good weekend it must be like a motorway service station up here.

We eat our lunch, meagre by any standards, followed by fresh cream doughnuts. It's so warm that the jam in the doughnuts has turned runny, but they're delicious nonetheless as well as providing the necessary calorific intake to give us the energy we need.

We could sit here all day, and it's tempting to lay our backs onto the boulder behind us and drift off, but instead we consult the map to gauge how far it is to Kinder Downfall.
far to even consider today or in the near future as it will mean an early start and late finish. We decide we'll do it when all the girls have left home for university or whatever. That means in another four and a half years or so. We're patient. We can wait.

Despite the desire to linger we press on and the rise up to Grindslow Knoll at 601 m doesn't seem to take much effort - must be because of the doughnuts. Our reward, of course, is the ever expanding panoramic view around a full 360 degrees. The downhill route lays ahead and despite its rock-free grassy slope we're not looking forward to it. It's steep and we know, from experience, it's a killer on the knees. Still, it's the only way to go and we set off, reluctantly leaving the high places behind us.

We're passed by a couple of men, and some more angle down off of other tracks.

We debate how infrequently we see women out on our walks unless they are accompanied by men. Men alone, in pairs or groups are in abundance, but not women. It's sad.

The path turns rough and rubbly, making it slippery underfoot, but we've soon dropped down to the gently sloping field that leads us back to the village. We pause, quite astounded, as on old aircraft flies overhead very low. We watch it go up the valley and out of sight, unable to recognise it, of course. A little earlier we'd have been above it.

We head back to our cars, slower than on the way out. We're tired, but extremely satisfied. It's been a brilliant walk on a perfect day; one to treasure.

LADYBOWER, BELLHAG AND DERWENT

OK, so there were no bluebells, we need to get that cleared up at the beginning. We arrived far to early in the year to see them and will try again in a few weeks.

Given the absence of bluebells we decide to follow Plan B. We park facing the northern arm of Ladybower Reservoir and set off walking up the steep bridleway which runs beside Ridges Coppice and up Hagg Side. We stop a few times, to admire the view of course, which is opening up in spectacular fashion under a clear but cold sky; the reservoir in the foreground, Derwent Ridge behind topped by the distinctive Wheel Stones, Salt Cellar and White Tor. Pity about lack of photos, though. We're suffering from camera absence. Ah well, it gives us an excuse to re-visit this walk again in the near future.

This bridleway is a bit of a slog and our muscles aren't warmed up yet, but the incline soon changes that. We're not lot before we lose the backward view as the woods close in on both sides. Drifts of white oxalis pepper the ground beneath the trees, delicate rather than spectacular, but little else grows here as the conifers swallow all the light.

Once at the top of the bridleway we turn right, without pause for breath, along the path running above Open Hagg. It's easy strolling and again the views are fantastic.

Behind us the path to Crook Hill is dominated by looming grey clouds but scanning around we can follow the long ridge running from Lose Hill to Mam Tor, then the ranges of Edale Moor and Kinder. It's lambing season and we pass dozens of ewes with their lambs, most laying down and trying to remain invisible - snow white on green!

We cross a stile and set off on the hardcore track heading towards Lockerbrook Farm, only to pause at a permissive path on our left. It's tempting. It leads up onto Bellhag and Pasture Tors - places we'd noted on our last visit to the area with every intention of reaching them at some point. It's no good. The walking is proving too easy, the weather is great and we're so glad to be out that we succumb to temptation without any effort to resist. Our plan, if it can be called one, is just to walk up and enjoy the view, then return on the same path and resume where we left off.

Avoiding the high ladder stile in favour of a gate - securing it carefully behind us - we head off through a field full of sheep and lambs. We're careful not to disturb them as we follow the gentle uphill gradient.

With every step the impressive views unfold - although we try to ignore the blot that is the cement works - and again bemoan the lack of camera. We WILL have to come here again. We can see over the trees to the Derwent Edge and beyond to Stanage Edge and Howden Edge.

As we continue onto open moorland we are walking above the A57 Snake Pass which seems to be a thin, insignificant thread below us. There's a distinctly chill wind blowing up here but after passing Bellhag and Pasture Tors (neither of which we can see as their rocky outcrops are below the ridge line) we find a comfortable spot to sit which is sheltered enough for us to enjoy a coffee, and a warming nip from the other flask.

From this vantage point we can spy out another potential walk, a linear one following the course of a Roman road, and we make a note of it for the future.

With the coffee break over we set off again, pretty certain that we won't be back-tracking. When the moorland path becomes paved we strike out north-east across open land. There's no path, just a few narrow sheep tracks and clumps of coarse grasses. As the land dips the wind drops suddenly. There's no-one else in sight and probably no-one in earshot either. Apart from the birds it is wonderfully, eerily silent.

We pause to consult the map and take our bearings - it would be easy to become lost here - but we can spy the far distant turrets of Howden Dam, the narrow cut of Alport Grain in front of us with the groughs draining Rowlee Pasture feeding into it from our left. We are exactly where we want to be, and know precisely where we are heading.

This is brilliant walking. No-one and nothing to disturb us and a feeling of being out in the wild. We hop over the start of Alport Grain, here it is only a few inches wide, and climb up and down the groughs, grateful that they are dry as it hasn't rained for days.

We reach the line of a tumbled wall and settle down for a picnic. We eat our lunch and drink the coffee. A slight panic follows when PC yells something about a bomb, but it's only her desperation for the buns which she thinks I've forgotten. Crisis is averted when the fresh cream eclairs are brought out, but they are hard to eat when you're almost crying with laughter!

We've been sat for long enough for the birds to ignore us, despite the noise we must be making, and there are dozens of different calls. Most we don't recognise although the curlews are very vocal, as is another that PC thinks sounds like a sad Clanger.

At last we have to move on and using excellent navigational skills (with a smidgen of luck) we approach a gate in a fence which surrounds Birchinlee New Piece. We are a little concerned, it looks as though it's a sheer drop beyond the fence, but once through the gate we can see that the route is passable, but with care. We face the option of a serious steep downhill walk (or slither) or abseiling off some rocks. We choose to walk.

Fortunately the fence is extremely sturdy and it provides essential handholds as we make our way down the hillside. Thank goodness it isn't wet, or we'd be skiing. Eventually we can make out a faint track to our left which leads us to a single hawthorn tree beneath a rock face richly sculpted by wind, rain and rock falls.

We have to be careful now. There are plenty of rocks beneath our feet but they are buried beneath a thick carpet of bracken, bilberry and heather. We manage to clamber up onto the narrow ridge that stands proud of this small valley, and we look down warily. The view is brilliant, apart from the revelation that there are cow grazing in the valley bottom. But there's no turning back, I'll face the cows - somehow - when I get to them.

It's difficult to find the best way down. There isn't a path, just a hint of a track, so we take our time testing each step. We have to go up first, then once we've reached the highest point on the ridge we start descending. It isn't easy, until we discover how to sledge down on our bums. Easy with well padded derrieres, you just have to be wary of the prickly bits.

The going gets easier when we reach the woods surrounding Ouzelden Clough, and I'm determined to stick to the woods to avoid the cows, risking injury on felled trees on the far side of the brook rather than walk too close to them. The cows are supremely indifferent to our presence, but I feel better taking no chances even though PC is far braver and walks quite close to them.

Soon we're back on a man-made track and all we have to do is walk back to the cars by the side of the reservoir. The water seems very low and a heron is fishing in the shallows. We're back amongst civilization; cars and walkers, but we're feeling very pleased with ourselves.

It's a fair distance to the car park, but it doesn't take us long. Beyond Fairholmes we dip into the woods just to see how advanced the bluebells are. Not very.

We reflect that this has been an immensely satisfying walk, and no matter how often we come to this area we frequently manage to find somewhere we haven't been before. It's just a pity that we didn't have the camera - hopefully there'll be a few photos in the archive!

CRESSBROOK DALE TO PETER'S STONE

The looming grey clouds which promise rain can't dampen our enthusiasm. Another week's walk has been forcibly crossed from our diaries and we need to make up for lost time.

We've parked at Upperdale Farm and decide to pull on all our waterproof gear when we feel the chill of the wind sweeping down the valley. We're hardy souls, but not daft. We set off down the road towards the old mill, now fancy dwellings rather than an industrial space. As we veer off up the right hand road we pause to look at the mill pond. In the centre, on a raised nest, is a coot. Then we see, to the right, its partner swimming in the water with three tiny balls of fluff. It's amazing how fast they can swim; surely they can only be a day or so old given that mum is still on the nest. We watch them for a while, daft grins on our faces, before setting off up the road reflecting that it's seeing such gems that add a special something to our walks. We pity those who forge forward with their heads down seeing only where they are

their feet.

When the road turns a hairpin bend we take the footpath straight on, going through a gate which, last time, had been guarded by young bullocks. Fortunately there were long gone and we passed through with ease (and a steady pulse rate. I don't do cows).

Over to our right the sheer cliffs of Ravenscliffe loom, and to our left is a wood full of anemones.

We walk steeply downhill and come to the bridge at the entrance to the Cressbrook Dale nature reserve. Today the river bed is bone dry, grass and weeds growing amongst the rocks, but on our last visit we'd had to paddle to the bridge which only skimmed the fast flowing water by a few millimeters and was in danger of becoming submerged. On that occasion, the valley upstream had been turned into a series of small lakes complete with resident ducks. Today we cross dry shod.

Once over the bridge we are in a botanical haven. The trees are not yet in full leaf which means that the anemones are thriving, and we have to stop to photograph a clump of pink flowers which are showing off in the middle of their white

family members. There are bright yellow celandines and in the numerous clearings cowslips are blooming. The dry river bed is home to blackthorn, its white flowers promising a bumper crop of sloes in the autumn. Later on in this season there will be ramsons and meadowsweet, their leaves fresh but their flowers not ready yet. Deeper in the wood it is clear that trees get little light, and that the air is moist. We stop to stroke one tree which seems to be wearing a soft, furry overcoat of moss which has turned its bark green.

The rain has turned to a determined drizzle and we have to be careful over the

limestone rocks which have become slippery underfoot. There is only once spot which could cause any problems but we're careful. Now the woodland has given way to open valley bottom, and we spot our first orchid. Of course, we have to take a photograph of the vivid purple beauty, but the camera is being uncooperative. By the time we've finished the poor specimen must be in contention for the most photographed orchid in England.

We stop for a coffee. The rain has passed over, the view is lovely and we've found somewhere comfortable to sit. A couple of walkers come down from Tansley Dale and stop to talk about the wild flowers. Apparently Tansley Dale is awash with cowslips. The couple seem unsure of exactly where they're heading, they only have a guidebook and no map, but they set off anyway. We pack up our rucksacks and head further up the valley.

We walk past Peter's Stone (or Peter's Rock, it depends whether you believe the map or the marker post) to peer down the valley towards Wardlow Mires then double back on a path that takes us up towards Peter's Stone, an impressive limestone outcrop believed to resemble the dome of St Peter's in Rome. More sinister, though, is the fact that it was apparently the site of the last gibbet in Derbyshire in 1812. We didn't know that when we decided to picnic amongst the orchids at its base!

Our lunch spot is chosen in blissful ignorance of past associations and we enjoy our picnic complete with fresh cream slices - just enough jam, just enough cream - which we eat with sticky relish. We finish off with coffee and a sip from the flask to keep the chill at bay. The clouds are gathering again and the temperature is dropping. It's too cold to sit for long so we set off back.

We had planned to take the uphill path which then drops down to the bridge, only to vary the route and views on the return, but sitting down in the cold has made hips stiff so we return on our outward path.

When we reach the awkward rocky part of the path we find a small group sitting on it eating their lunch totally blocking the way! There is no other way around so they have to move their belongings for us to pass and immediately settle down once we've gone. They'll be in for a shock as there are more people out walking now. We muse over the foolishness of some people as we head back to the bridge. The sky has brightened again although the sun resolutely refuses to shine. At least it isn't trying to rain anymore.

We cross the bridge and head left along the side of the dry river bed. Why doesn't this river have a name on the map? Is it because it's only a part-timer? Here the banks are smothered in ramsons, the pungent flowers still curled up deep in their buds. In a few weeks the air will be a solid wall of garlic scent. Lovely.

There are a few bluebells out, especially close to Ravensdale Cottages, but they stop abruptly. Perhaps in a few years they will have managed spread, although the ramsons are probably tough competitors for the available space.

We only have to walk back downhill now and along to the cars. It hasn't been a particularly long or strenuous walk, but we both feel tired. It doesn't stop us planning for next week though when we go hunting for bluebells (we hope).

MONSAL HEAD TO LITTON

Fantastic! Not only were we emerging from the enforced Easter idleness but the sun is out and the sky a clear, cloudless blue.

Parking at Monsal Head on the Little Longstone road is normally a straight forward operation, but today a long line of cars mean we are forced to park amidst a mass trespass (or organised walk to the uninitiated). Fingers crossed they wouldn't be walking our way - and a generous but misplaced invitation to join them (politely but emphatically refused) revealed their route to be different to ours. Phew.

A brief blip at the top of Monsal Head reveals that one camera was missing and the 'first time out' camera has flat batteries. This means relying on a mobile phone for photos and hoping the technological details will not be our downfall.

Too eager to set off we hit the first path we come to and, despite having been this way many times, don't realise it is the path leading down to the River Wye rather than across the viaduct -until we come to the water. A decision is made. We press on, and it's the right decision. We reach a weir, white water frothing down its steps throwing up spray which, in the wonderful sunshine, produces a perfect, personal rainbow.

We cross the footbridge and meander back upriver through a wide meadow sprinkled with spring flowers and head towards the viaduct, its towering black arches dominating the valley. A quick scramble up the valley side and we emerge onto the trail we'd initially intended to be on. This is easy walking on the remains of the old railway line, its track-bed more used to the pounding of feet now rather than the rumble of metal wheels. Trees provide shade from the sun but the April chill still makes itself felt, although that doesn't stop some people walking in strappy vests and shorts. What will they do when it gets really warm?

We stop on a bench for a drink (only cranberry juice) and to carry on catching up. So much seems to have happened over the last three weeks - to family members rather than us, of course, we seem to lead uneventful lives - but the repercussions inevitably affect us. There have been moments of pride, elation, frustration and worrying over plans for the future. The usual family mix.

We follow the path skirting the now-blocked tunnel towards Cressbrook Mill and the delightfully named Water-cum-Jolly Dale. Before reaching either place we veer uphill on a less distinct path we have used before (we think) to avoid a couple of undignified scrambles. This path keeps us high above the River Wye and looking down we can see a solitary swan gliding across the water among coots and other waterbirds. The looming limestone crags behind provide a dramatic backdrop although people walking on the path beneath in bright colours spoil the effect.

Our path dips and rises with the contours of the hill but we are constantly climbing. Soon we reach a vantage point above the aptly named Millers Dale (although there is another Millers Dale, or perhaps continuation of this one, to the west). We admire the view in the, admittedly, cold wind. We've been here before, on a good day and on a bad one where it was impossible to see more than a couple of yards ahead, but we've never been able to see so far or so clearly. We can even see the damned cement works at Hope on the horizon!

Finding a sheltered hollow to sit in keeps us out of the wind, so we break out our leisurely lunch. Today is not a day for hurrying. The views, the weather and the conversation are a perfect mix. Even the buns, calorie free fresh cream scones (no calorie count on the box means they must be calorie free) seems extra special. We spot a pair of buzzards on the opposite side of the valley, one constantly calling to the other with its long, drawn out cry. They circle slowly, lazily, and are soon directly above us. We look up to admire the banding under their wings and marvel at the graceful, effortless ease with which they catch the air currents. Higher they go, circling endlessly. Then to the right another buzzard becomes airborne and one of the pair goes to meet it as its partner carries on upwards. Soon they are only specks in the endless sky.

Still looking skywards we see a few vapour trails, an unfamiliar sight these last few days after the eruption of the Icelandic volcano. Man is obviously reclaiming the skies. A pity the airspace isn't left to the buzzards.

We spend far too long over lunch and despite not wanting to move on, we must.

The path skirts the hillside and descends steeply to the old railway track and Litton Mill. We cross the river, running deep and clear, and walk through the old mill complex, now houses and apartments, before joining the riverside path.

One house has a wild, unkempt garden facing the river and we pause to admire the profusion of pale yellow primroses growing there. A little way on and we stop again to stare at the banks of delicate white, nodding anemones sprinkled liberally over the woodland floor like icing sugar. Totally enchanting.

The river is full of large fish, trout, and an angler waits for us to pass before trying his luck with them.

Walking is easy. The strength of the sun is concentrated in the high-sided valley and it has become really warm. We spot a face in the limestone rock face to our left; two eyes, a nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and wonder how long it has been watching people walk this way whilst they have passed by, oblivious.

Soon we're under the looming crags at Water-cum-Jolly Dale and crossing the bridge over the thundering weir. Then it's a brief climb up to the path and back onto the Monsal Trail.

We're running late and have to push the pace as we reach the final climb out of the valley to Monsal Head. Back at the cars we have only a brief time to reflect on a brilliant day before, reluctantly, heading home.

STANAGE EDGE

Rain and wind were forecast with the dull skies underlining the likelihood but as we met at the car park the promised rain had yet to make an appearance even though the cold wind was making itself felt.

This familiar walk holds no surprises for us but is one of our 'hot chocolate and fluffy blanket' walks. Familiar and comforting.

We decided on the easy route up to the ridge - a short trek up the road past Overstones Farm, left onto the footpath then onto a track that led us up onto the ridge with minimum of effort. It's a wide view from here: the flat, sky filled vista over Friar's Ridge stretching north towards Bradfield, Penistone and beyond; Higger Tor to the south managing to look unimpressive from this angle; Stanage Edge sweeping north-west but not wholly visible from here.

The ground is distinctly soggy underfoot thanks to the downpours of the last couple of days which have left the peaty ground sodden. Thank goodness for the huge stepping stones over the worst ground.

We hop up to the trig point at 457 m like a pair of (not so) agile mountain goats and admire the view. Pity the cement works at Hope intrudes, its pale grey geometric outline alien in this rugged landscape devoid of right angles or straight lines. But we manage to filter it out of our vision whilst listening to the birdsong, too many species to recognise are determined to let us know that they are feeling spring fever!

From the trig point we amble along the familiar ridge discussing, courtesy of a current television series, the planets and physics. Just goes to prove that we aren't entirely frivolous.

There's hardly anyone else up here. It's probably too early in the day, too dull and too windy. But this is the beauty of being able to walk mid-week, avoiding the hoards that descend on the Peak District at weekends. You can't blame them, everyone must make the most of the free time they have, but we appreciate our good fortune and enjoy the area without too many human distractions.

We pause at various points for photographs and scan the distant moors, naming them, recounting our numerous walks over them, planning on revisiting some. We don't hurry along desperate to clock up the miles. That would be missing the point. We have to stand and stare, it would be wrong to do otherwise.

We stop for coffee after making the rucksacks pose for photographs and try to identify a very loud bird. No luck with the ID, perhaps I need to put a wildlife book in my already overstuffed rucksack.

A little way along we make a slight detour between two boulders, scramble back uphill then find a suitable rock to bask on and eat lunch as the sun makes an appearance. Yes, contrary to the weather forecast, it is turning into a fine day. Lunch has the tempting accompaniment of a small bottle of vino (early birthday celebration) which is savoured from plastic cups before the buns ('low calorie' fresh cream doughnuts) are devoured with unseemly relish. No rush. We sit and enjoy the views whilst putting the world to rights.

There are more people out now, mainly on the paths below the ridge, but the few that pass behind us don't intrude with anything more than usual walkers' greetings.

Rucksacks are shouldered again as we meander on, this really is a leisurely walk. There's plenty of water coming from the area known as White Path Moss and the many streams cascade over the gritstone edge as weak windblown waterfalls. Standing above them we are treated to a few drops of spray being blown back up at us, but we've been here before in fierce winds when we have been liberally doused by the water being thrown back. A water-rise rather than a waterfall, maybe?

We descend from the edge on the path down towards Dennis Knoll. Sadly the lane is badly eroded and eroded due to, in part, its use (overuse) by 4 x 4 vehicles whose drivers use the route for 'fun' whilst ripping up and polluting the countryside. Near the bottom of the track wide puddles extend across the whole width of the path with deep water-filled ditches on either side. Water runs from one side of the path to the other (the map says it's a ford but it hardly merits the description). To our surprise (OK, horror) we discover that the puddles are full, really full, of frog spawn. On closer inspection we see that the water-filled ditches are equally filled with the globular goo. With terrible fascination we envisage what it will be like here in a few weeks time - and vow to avoid the place for a while.

Our return by road is easy walking, not too much traffic and a fantastic view of the edge with an early moon hanging over it in broad daylight. There are lots more people on the top now, and a number of hardy souls climbing too. The running water beneath Sheepwash Bank is a tempting distraction but we must explore this another time.

The toilets provide a convenient break before we set off the up final hill alongside Cattis-side Moor. We maintain our pace all the way up and don't stop once. Not bad!

The car park is almost full with many people coming off the edge and others only just setting out, but we know we have definitely had the best of the day.