Leek and the Staffordshire Moorlands
April 2017
Leek is in Staffordshire, an ancient market town built on the River Churnet and self-proclaimed Queen of the Moorlands.
As I approached, driving over the tops, a stunning view of a rock escarpment called the Roaches came into view. I have walked them many times, but never seen them from this angle, jutting from the earth, all rock and drama. You can see how they were thrust upwards at a time of primeval chaos. Absolutely breath-taking.
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I had been driving for a whole hour (!) so I stopped at Tittesworth Reservoir, where there is a visitor centre with a café. The centre is run by Severn Trent Water, so there are displays about the building of the reservoir – in 1858 a damn was built across the valley of the River Churnet, flooding farmland. A century later the dam was increased in size and the water was used as drinking water. There are also presentations about water conservation and what you should or shouldn’t put down the toilet, which surely depends largely on what you’ve been eating.
I had a coffee – not a great one – but the café was bright and airy and very pleasant, with views over the water. Afterwards, I went for a walk along a waterside path. Yellow is the colour of the day; there were dandelions, buttercups and gorse flowers – and there were daffodils everywhere! If Wordsworth was here, he could wander lonely as a cloud and write himself a sonnet.
I encountered a very elderly and infirm couple trying to negotiate a stile; they were clearly having some problems. I gave them some space and waited patiently, wondering whether I should offer them some assistance. It’s an awkward situation when you don’t want to patronise people and disempower them, but also you don’t want them to be needing help and be thinking why’s that lanky cretin just standing there watching us struggle?
I gave them a full five minutes, then I couldn’t just stand by and watch them struggle anymore, so I stepped forward and smiled. “Are you OK? Do you need any help?”
The woman became apoplectic. “Need any help? Need any help? We’ve been doing this all afternoon! Over stiles, up ladders, through gates. We don’t need any help!”
The old man looked at me apologetically and wearily, with rheumy eyes. He stepped back and told me to come over and they’d be fine. Reluctantly, I left them to it. I suspect they’re still there, suffering from hyperthermia but with their dignity still intact.
It was bright and sunny, so I put my sunglasses on, but felt ridiculous because it was bitterly cold and blowing an icy gale. Anyway, the sunglasses did the trick and it clouded over immediately.
The footpath took me through wide, grassy fields with low hills in the background. There was a real tangible sense of openness, of space, of land and sky and fresh, clean air. I climbed another stile – unaided – into a field of sheep. A mother ewe and her two lambs came running towards me with a sense of urgency, barking like dogs with a phlegmy cough. The other sheep cottoned-on and followed suit, charging towards me. At first I thought they were trying to protect their children, but that didn’t make sense, because they brought their kids to me. I was completely surrounded by them, barking and coughing; it was very surreal. I made sure I didn’t touch any of them, because I was wary of leaving my scent on them. (In this case, Aldi Nocturnal Hoo-Hah Man Spray For Men.) Another stile took me to freedom.
"I am not a number... I am a free lamb!" At first I thought the numbers were really offensive, then I realised they are to distinguish which lambs belong to which ewes.
The Roaches weren’t getting any sun now and they looked like a jagged, torn strip of black paper, cold and foreboding, dominating the landscape.
Suddenly the leafy path I was following threw me out onto an estate of newbuild houses, which weren’t on my map. They looked quite incongruous, very new and awkward and not at ease in their surroundings yet; so fresh they still appeared to be covered in brick dust and still had the imprints of the builders’ arses from where they sat on the steps having one of their many morning brews.
Just as suddenly the newbuilds gave way to an estate of what would most probably have been built as council houses, small grey semis, which looked mean; I imagine they probably bully the newbuilds. This wasn’t actually where I wanted to be. There are housing estates everywhere, of course, but I don’t really want to visit them. It didn’t seem a particularly nice place and you’re always an outsider when you’re walking through someone else’s town.
The semis suddenly gave way to older brick terraces with doors opening directly into the street. It was like the architectural history of Leek was unfolding before me; the nearer I got to the town centre, the older the properties became.
Most windows of the houses I passed were sporting Save Leek Hospital posters. Leek Moorlands Hospital is currently under threat of closure, which would mean the local community would have to travel to Stoke-on-Trent for any treatment. Leek apparently has a higher than average elderly population, who rely heavily on the out-patient services of their local hospital, so would be hard-hit by the closure. The town seems united in the fight to keep it open and very few windows did not display the posters.
I passed a playground, full of children playing quite contentedly. There didn’t seem to be an adult anywhere, yet the kids were all getting on and there was no trouble. It all seemed so nice and old fashioned – I almost expected it to be in black and white.
After nearly two hours of walking I eventually arrived in Leek. The market place was a pleasant cobbled square with an eclectic array of attractive buildings surrounding it; it felt suitably old and authentic and made a natural focal point for the centre of town.
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I suddenly felt hungry and right on cue there was a chippy, so I had chips and peas. I ate them sitting on the market square's only bench, being blasted by the music from a nearby pub. A Japanese girl came up and took a photograph of me. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t ask and she didn’t seem to think it was in any way intrusive. It was as though she'd purposely done it to strengthen the racial stereotype about Japanese people and their photography. Being English I apologised and commented on the weather. It dawned on me that she perhaps thought I was a homeless person tucking gratefully into some (once-hot) food before spending a cold night in the open, possibly on this very bench.
I left some of the chips and tried to put the tray and leftovers in the nearby litter bin, but it was quite full, so the tray and discarded chips sprang out again, so I had to catch them and try again. To the unsuspecting eye, it probably looked like I was taking food out of the bin rather than putting it in. Anyway, no one offered me a bed for the night or any money.
I was bone cold by this point; I honestly don’t know how rough sleepers survive the bitter nights on the streets without succumbing to hyperthermia. I began the walk home, briskly, up the main road to save time. The sun was sinking and it was getting really cold.
As I got further out of town the houses became larger and further apart, then they ended as well and it was just countryside, with a view of Tittesworth Reservoir down below and the cradling distant hills. The sun dipped below the tree-lined western horizon, leaving only a backwash of lilac and pink in its wake and a lattice of interwoven vapour-trails.
I remembered the old couple who were having trouble with the stiles earlier and might still be for all I knew. I hope they made it home.
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Wednesday 5th April 2017
It was a beautiful morning early on, but the moment I stepped out of my van it became cold and overcast. The weather forecasters had lied again.
I walked a circuitous route into Leek, to avoid going back through the council estate. It took ages. I had picked up a leaflet the day before for the Leek History Trail, which I was looking forward to doing. It is surprising how many outstanding buildings this small town has.
The first stop was Saint Edward’s church, which was a nice enough building in itself, but most impressive were two pre-Norman crosses in the graveyard, both featuring Celtic knotwork-type decoration. If you happen to be in this graveyard at night, two points: Firstly, why are you in the graveyard at night? Secondly, at the rear of the graveyard there is a sheer drop of about twelve feet. You can see where the protective metal railings once were, but they were removed in the war to make munitions. It just seems so wrong that metal was taken from churches to make weapons to kill people.
I made a brief recce through the market hall. I’m not a fan of markets in general, I don’t like the intimidating stall-holders and the fact that nothing is priced and markets generally seem dowdy and depressing, with greasy little cafés, full of shuffling Rottweilers in raincoats who are hungry for a bargain. I appreciate that to some markets are very communal and convivial places, where locals can gather in the little cafes and have a chat and that seemed to be the case here. It seemed like a community.
The attractive market square was ruined by parked cars. It is such an impressive area that it should be a feature in its own right, not just a place to wedge your over-sized four-wheel drive. It deserves better.
One of the most imposing buildings in the town is the Nicholson Institute, built in the 1880s in the then-fashionable Queen Anne Revival style. It houses the town library and upstairs there is a museum, the prize feature being Wally Wallaby, a stuffed animal in a glass cage. You might wonder what’s so special about a stuffed animal, because it certainly isn’t something I want to see. But Wally is rather special. He was found dead locally in 1993. A colony of wallabies were rumoured to be living in the Roaches area; they had been part of a private zoo in the grounds of Roaches Hall in the 1930s. I had assumed they would have died out decades ago, but poor Wally would seem to prove otherwise.
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At the other end of town, but still with a Nicholson family connection, is the impressive white Portland stone War Memorial, which was presented to the town to honour the war dead, including the youngest Nicholson son, Basil. Depending on who you listen to, this is either one of the largest or the largest war memorial in the country.
I was drawn into The Cock Inn for a dinnertime drink. A pint and innuendo… how good in that? It has a pleasing and spacious interior, but the best thing about the Cock Inn were the staff. The young woman who served me was friendly and welcoming, which is something I find sadly lacking in so many pubs these days. As I sat, minding my own business and listening to other people’s conversations, I noticed that all the bar staff – and they were all young and blonde – made a special effort to engage with the locals, most of whom were elderly. Not just when they were serving them either, they made a point of going over and having a brief chat with them and it was in no way patronising or contrived, it was natural and quite lovely to see.
In the afternoon, partly to get out of the cold, I had a browse round the Antiques Emporium. I have it on good authority that this is the largest antiques emporium on this side of somewhere else. It’s full of some lovely old pieces that just ooze history.
I called in another lovely old pub called the Roebuck, a beautiful 17th Century timber framed building, once a private house. I had a lovely meal: three-bean burger with chips. Gorgeous. Again the bar staff were friendly and welcoming. An older lady barmaid called everyone “Shug”, the first syllable of “sugar” presumably. She also seemed to be struggling with the till; it’s always nice to find someone even less at ease with technology that I am. They’re in the minority and when they die they should be stuffed and put in a glass case next to Wally Wallaby.
As I walked back to the campsite, cutting through the park for part of the way, I encountered several mums out with their children; I didn’t see one of them on the phone or checking Facebook, they all engaged with the kids, which is something quite rare now. I was suddenly struck by what a community-based sort of place Leek appeared to be. Mums that show an interest in their children; bar staff who are friendly and welcoming; children playing unchaperoned in the playgrounds; older people meeting up in the café in the market hall. I felt more aware of a sense of community here than I recall ever feeling anywhere before.
There is a skateboard track within the park, which is completely and utterly graffitied; there isn’t a trace of its original colour or material. I felt disappointed at first by this mindless vandalism, because it isn’t very community-minded, then I realised I hadn’t seen any graffiti elsewhere, not at all, so perhaps it isn’t intended as graffiti, it isn’t vandalism, it’s decoration. The skateboard track is for the kids and they’ve decorated it in a style of their choosing. Perhaps they were even invited to.
I left the houses behind and followed the footpath across open country. I came across a bench that had a message in the backrest of the seat: “Active people have a 33 to 50% lower risk of developing type two diabetes.” This message is a great idea – in principle. Unfortunately, this bench is half way up a fairly steep slope, so none of the sugar-bingeing lard-arses who are at home having a sweet snack while watching daytime TV are ever going to see it, but I still love the principle.
I had a great day in Leek and I really warmed to the town. My newly adopted policy of trying not to spend much money went out of the window, but at least I only spent cash on food and alcohol. Maybe that bench was put there as a warning to me…
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