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Authors: Mike Parker
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annually from the late 1920s through to the outbreak of the Second World War. They were generally fairly polite affairs, a few hundred or thousand picnicking happily in the natural amphitheatre of the Pass and applauding the rambling lobbyists and sympathetic politicians of the day. The events on Kinder Scout of April 1932 galvanised the event, with 10,000 turning up for the rally two months later, many of them young Kinder veterans and their friends noisily demanding support from the more timorous wings of the access movement. The rather diffident and polite world of rambling had changed for good.
Winnats Pass, and the neighbouring tourist honeypot of Castleton, were the perfect places to bring my northern footpath odyssey to an end, for I wanted to kick off the walking boots and place all these stories in their wider context of how folk up north like to relax. If Edale, with its cute train station and no main road or street lights, comes across like something off a 1930s OS map, all knobbly knees, mess tins, bad teeth and the tantalising chance of a fresh air-assisted leg-over, then Castleton is its twin in Sunday best. Castleton is where you take your aunties on a day trip, and although I’d never been there before, it felt somehow like the embodiment of my 1970s childhood, all lacquered hair-dos, gift shops that have you clucking at the prices, ice-cream faces and lacy doilies. It’s famous for its spectacular caves, and the unique local stone, called Blue John, that comes from them. Blue John is, you are regularly assured, one of the most prized of decorative rocks, but to my eyes its garish swirls looked tailor-made for clunky 1970s ashtrays, and not much else. Entirely fittingly, it was to Castleton that one of the earliest Coronation Street outings took place, a 1965 jaunt to the Blue John mine organised by upright Emily Bishop (or Nugent as she was at the time). In the shop at Speedwell Cavern, there’s a lovely photo of them filming Hilda and Stan Ogden, Len Fairclough, Elsie Tanner, and Mr and Mrs Walker as they tottered off the excursion coach. I pulled on my cardy, channelled the spirit of Annie Walker and went for a cup of tea. Loose leaf, in a china cup.
There were countless other paths I could have walked, innumerable hills, forests and moors that had witnessed the north-west’s struggle for access, but I felt that I’d seen and walked the most important, and that, in themselves, they represented a fine cross-section both of the issues and the landscapes involved. The trip had been superb, as much for the warm-hearted humour and easy-going chattiness of the locals as the imposing scenery. The umbilical link between the people of the north-west and their wild places had inspired me hugely, and it is as strong now as it ever has been. I had to admit that the bolshie buggers are quite within their rights to go on about it.
Chapter 3
BLAZING THE TRAIL
Follow the beige brick road on Mam Tor, Peak District
Pub-quiz time: which UK number one record included quotations from Noam Chomsky, William Ewart Gladstone and Albert Camus? A clue – it wasn’t by Westlife, but you probably guessed that. It did, however, storm straight in at number one and knock out the little Irish poppets, who’d been there for the previous four weeks with yet another damp ballad. It was the first new number one of the twenty-first century; over a decade on, it still pounds through you like a blast of amphetamines.
You know, I’m sure. Who else but the shamelessly precocious Manic Street Preachers, Gwent’s finest in eyeliner, would attempt to weave words by such an unlikely triumvirate into a massive hit record? Gladstone gave it its title (‘All the world over, I will back the masses against the classes’), Camus its coda (‘A slave begins by demanding justice, and ends by wanting to wear a crown’), whined out at the dying fall by lead singer James Dean Bradfield, but it was the words of Chomsky that grab
Winnats Pass, and the neighbouring tourist honeypot of Castleton, were the perfect places to bring my northern footpath odyssey to an end, for I wanted to kick off the walking boots and place all these stories in their wider context of how folk up north like to relax. If Edale, with its cute train station and no main road or street lights, comes across like something off a 1930s OS map, all knobbly knees, mess tins, bad teeth and the tantalising chance of a fresh air-assisted leg-over, then Castleton is its twin in Sunday best. Castleton is where you take your aunties on a day trip, and although I’d never been there before, it felt somehow like the embodiment of my 1970s childhood, all lacquered hair-dos, gift shops that have you clucking at the prices, ice-cream faces and lacy doilies. It’s famous for its spectacular caves, and the unique local stone, called Blue John, that comes from them. Blue John is, you are regularly assured, one of the most prized of decorative rocks, but to my eyes its garish swirls looked tailor-made for clunky 1970s ashtrays, and not much else. Entirely fittingly, it was to Castleton that one of the earliest Coronation Street outings took place, a 1965 jaunt to the Blue John mine organised by upright Emily Bishop (or Nugent as she was at the time). In the shop at Speedwell Cavern, there’s a lovely photo of them filming Hilda and Stan Ogden, Len Fairclough, Elsie Tanner, and Mr and Mrs Walker as they tottered off the excursion coach. I pulled on my cardy, channelled the spirit of Annie Walker and went for a cup of tea. Loose leaf, in a china cup.
There were countless other paths I could have walked, innumerable hills, forests and moors that had witnessed the north-west’s struggle for access, but I felt that I’d seen and walked the most important, and that, in themselves, they represented a fine cross-section both of the issues and the landscapes involved. The trip had been superb, as much for the warm-hearted humour and easy-going chattiness of the locals as the imposing scenery. The umbilical link between the people of the north-west and their wild places had inspired me hugely, and it is as strong now as it ever has been. I had to admit that the bolshie buggers are quite within their rights to go on about it.
Chapter 3
BLAZING THE TRAIL
Follow the beige brick road on Mam Tor, Peak District
Pub-quiz time: which UK number one record included quotations from Noam Chomsky, William Ewart Gladstone and Albert Camus? A clue – it wasn’t by Westlife, but you probably guessed that. It did, however, storm straight in at number one and knock out the little Irish poppets, who’d been there for the previous four weeks with yet another damp ballad. It was the first new number one of the twenty-first century; over a decade on, it still pounds through you like a blast of amphetamines.
You know, I’m sure. Who else but the shamelessly precocious Manic Street Preachers, Gwent’s finest in eyeliner, would attempt to weave words by such an unlikely triumvirate into a massive hit record? Gladstone gave it its title (‘All the world over, I will back the masses against the classes’), Camus its coda (‘A slave begins by demanding justice, and ends by wanting to wear a crown’), whined out at the dying fall by lead singer James Dean Bradfield, but it was the words of Chomsky that grab
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