Leek: God’s Country
May 2017
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I walked from my campsite into Leek through fields and woodlands, and latterly past a recycling centre, which smelled, but was doing valuable work – I’m guessing it sorts the recyclable material from general waste – and finally through Leek’s fine and quite extensive park.
I was in need of refreshment – as I usually am – so I called into a café which overlooks the attractive market place, as usual ruined by parked cars. I was lucky enough to get a window seat and drank my tea while watching the people of Leek pass by.
An old man with a female companion came in and infuriatingly sat at the table nearest me. The woman had to return to the car as she’d forgotten her phone or purse. The old man, finding himself alone, immediately turned in his seat and started talking at me. He told me where he was from, where he was born, where he lived now, his career as an architect, how popular he was, his frequent holidays and the invites he got from his many, many friends.
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“I’m never, ever at a loss for something to do.” he said. Because he needed to draw breath he asked where I had walked from. I told him: the campsite three miles out of town; I had walked along the valley into Leek. “Ah… God’s Country, that is.” he said fondly. “It’s beautiful around there.” He picked up my map off the table. I’m a bit particular about my maps and don’t really like people handling them until we’ve exchanged names. Actually, his name and National Insurance number were the only pieces of information he didn’t impart. He unfolded the map, slagged off the Ordnance Survey and returned it, then – suitably refreshed – he continued with more tales from his life. His female companion came back with an armful of the items she’d previously forgotten. The old man immediately turned his back on me, mid-sentence and cut me dead. I didn’t know whether to be offended or grateful. (Grateful won!)
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Leek has many fine old buildings and one of them is the Cock Inn on the high street. After my tea and flapjack I thought I deserved a sit down and a drink. With a pint of Ruby something dark porter, I glanced around for a suitable place to sit and selected the front room where there were just two old chaps; they were engaged in conversation and seemed less likely to latch onto me and interfere with my maps. Many of the other areas of the pub contained eagle-eyed lone drinkers who were keenly watching for a vulnerable stranger they could unleash their life story to. I’m not anti-social… but I am unsociable. There’s a subtle difference. (Who am I kidding – I’m very anti-social, but polite with it.)
I sipped my pint and tried to read my book, but I couldn’t concentrate over the conversation of the two chaps, which centred around medication.
“I’ve been taking it for years and I never get gout now.”
A third chap arrived – although he was past retirement age he was evidently a gardener and wore green trousers and green jumper, as though to prove it.
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No Gout asked Green Gardener a gardening related question, as his wife had planted out something too soon, he thought. Green Gardener concurred, it was a fortnight too early. No Gout was jubilant: “That’s what I told her! Women never take advice given by men.”
Chap Four arrived. I realised I’d chosen the wrong place to sit, as this was their regular meeting place. I kept reading the same line of my book over and over while they vied with each other over Ailment of the Day. On the plus side, I realised I was the youngest by at least two decades. That doesn’t happen very often these days, so I decided to enjoy the experience.
I’d lost the thread of what they were talking about, but Chap Two - very slowly and very sagely, with immense gravitas - came out with the immortal line: “In every walk of life... wherever you go... you’re going to get... scallywags!” My Ruby something dark porter came shooting out of my nose, but the other chaps just nodded slowly, thoughtfully, in saddened agreement. I thought it was really endearing. I realised they hadn’t sworn once and apart from the mildest sexism aimed at their wives, there had been nothing remotely bad in their conversation. Leek should be proud of this little group of daytime drinkers.
The alcohol made me hungry, so I had some lunch, then walked back to my campsite along the lush valley, keeping a wary eye out for scallywags.
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The next morning was sunny but breezy. I walked via Tittesworth Water, which looked much more natural than when I last visited, as the trees along its banks were in full leaf. Mind you, it’s had since 1858 to get into this natural state. From the waterside paths, there were good views to the Roaches, a gritstone escarpment which dominates the view for miles around; it is dramatic and imposing and creates a memorable, jagged horizon.
I followed footpaths uphill to the lane that passes directly beneath the Roaches. Here I met a friendly elderly lady – a nice change from elderly gents – who recommended the tea at a nearby café which had views over the countryside. I never need much convincing. I sat in the conservatory, which was stifling, despite the windows being open and a ceiling fan rotating above, but with the sunlight behind it, it was causing a strobing effect and was a bit like being in a superheated disco or inside someone’s migraine. The old lady was right though; the tea was excellent.
From the café, I walked up Hen Cloud which is part of the Roaches ridge, but standing separately – it is even more dramatic and impressive. Due to peregrines nesting in the rocks, access is currently restricted to certain paths, which necessitated a steep and tricky scramble. I kept my eye out for a peregrine, but being realistic I wouldn’t know a nesting peregrine if it laid an egg on me.
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The old lady had warned me of the cold wind at the top, so I stopped just before the summit to bask in the wind-free sunshine on the sheltered side of the rocks; it was a suntrap and I lay down in the tufty grass for half an hour, enjoying the warmth. I could see almost the whole of Tittesworth reservoir; the wind was so strong that it was whipping up the surface of the water and actually causing white-crested breakers, which looked most odd on an inland stretch of water. The view was spectacular.
When I eventually managed to motivate myself and finish the climb, as warned, the moment I reached the summit plateau I was hit by a strong, chilling breeze. The top was covered with fascinating rock formations, blocks and pillars sculptured by the wind. On one rock, Tony and Iris had thoughtfully carved their names so we knew they’d been there. Presumably they came about eighty years ago when Iris was a name still in common use.
Descending the other side of the Cloud, I passed Roaches Hall, a former Victorian hunting lodge. It was once home to a private zoo, from which five wallabies escaped or were released (stories vary greatly) during the war years. These five bred and expanded into a colony of fifty. There was one example, the aptly named Wally the Wallaby, in the museum in Leek; he was found dead in recent years. It's frequently rumoured that the colony had died out, though there was photographic evidence as recently as 2009 and unconfirmed sightings from 2015. But I didn’t see any. Peregrines nil; Wallabies nil.
On my return towards Tittesworth however, I did see a very loving pair of swallows or swifts in a farm yard, swooping so low that they nearly drove into me. They came to rest on a telegraph wire above, but the wind was so strong that they had to cling on for dear life, the wire was swaying and they eventually took to the wing.
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I continued through a gently sloping meadow filled with wild flowers, all in the shadow of the Roaches. I decided to celebrate all this splendour by calling into a pub named after an indolent fish. The Lazy Trout was very rustic with uneven stone-flagged floor and distressed wooden tables. Though the place was relatively quiet, it happened again and a couple chose the table right next to me. In fact, I realised everyone was in couples and I was the only person who wasn’t at least 50% of a couple. I drank up, alone... and left, alone.
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Post-pint, I strolled back to the campsite in the golden evening light, marvelling on what an amazing day I’d had.
The following morning it was sunny again. The Roaches on the horizon and the surrounding verdant countryside all looked breath-taking. This really is a very beautiful part of Britain. Thinking back to what the old man in the café said, if I believed in God I would have no problem believing this would be the kind of countryside He – or She – would create.
