So finally, the Peak District. Mythical almost by now. I arrived in Buxton, a town that has a kind of purity in the mind thanks to the ubiquitous bottled water brand of the same name. In reality, the town had a grubby, rundown exterior quite at odds with the clear blue bottles.
I was dropped under the Victorian viaduct that scores over the town centre. Its heavy stone columns were reminiscent of medieval ramparts. There is no shortage of viaducts around here though many of them, this one included, are no longer in use, the railway lines now defunct. Lingering monuments to Victorian mastery.
I went in search of a pint. The high street was a little drab. Folks in kagools stooped along the cobbles past empty charity shops. Paint was peeling. Even the Costa Coffee sign was falling off. It smelt of oil from a chippy I couldn’t see.
The pub was old timey but not inviting. I sat in a booth. On the table over, two old gents were cocooned in layers of old coats, blue checkered fleece, tweed trilbies and bushy white moustaches, their noses in flat lagers. They were joined by two pugs who snuffled under the table. “Good boy, sit down,” croaked one of the old boys, encouraging his pooch with a tender hand, “You see,” he said to his mate, “He’s got more intelligence than you. More A levels probably. Makes more sense than you anyhow.”
His companion said nothing to this jibe, just stared at his pint. His mouth a perfect upside-down U. Then he mumbled something about immigrants. “They’ve got no money! No money!” Then he got up and shuffled off. His long yellow hair was the colour of fingernails.
I found my way to the edge of town, aiming for the hills. The Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas says the modern countryside is divided between industrial farming and landscape preserved and potted for its beauty. The Peak District is a perfect example. Surrounded as it is by sprawling industrial cities, Leeds, Sheffield, Manchester, Derby, Stoke, Nottingham, and a layer of industrial agriculture as blubber. The fabled park is plopped like an emerald in the middle. A fix of nature for middle England.
The roundabout on the north side of town was freshly tarmacked. The sun was beginning to show, dressing the scene in evening finery. Ryan swung his van over. There was a chatter of debris as I opened the door. Old Red Bull cans, crisp packets, disconnected tools, squashed cigarette packets. Ryan told me not to worry, just clear a space.
He had a big beard and a bigger tummy. A black beanie sat atop his round face. He was still at work he said, collecting bouncy castles, on his way to Kinder Scout to pick one up from a party there. This is what he did during the summer. During the winter he delivered split logs for his Dad, but his dad wasn’t doing that anymore. Ryan wasn’t sure what he’d do this year.
“Are they good bouncy castles?” I asked, thinking of the great ones from my childhood. Those ones that had entire adventure courses and a huge great slide at the end.
“They’re good money, that’s what they are.”
The cheapest cost £60 a day to hire and only six grand to buy. “The big slides,” Ryan said, “about £200 a day and you’re looking at about 20 grand to buy?” Ryan’s boss would take them to the festivals where he’d charge for 10 or 20-minute slots. Cash in hand. He’d made 2k that day at the Dinklage Festival. He’d do that all summer.
“My boss is a proper Dell boy, like,” Ryan explained, “If there’s something to make money off, he’ll make it. Literally does everything.”
I liked Ryan. He was easy company. The evening had opened up by now, as had the landscape. The fields were a rich green and the brown brooding hulks of the hills stood behind them.
I asked if I’d be all right pitching a tent somewhere quiet. “Errrrm,” he pondered, “I’d go in some trees. It’s actually illegal to wild camp in the Peak District believe it or not.”
I did believe it. It’s illegal to wild camp everywhere. Except Dartmoor. But the landlord there has just outlawed that too. Ryan’s friend got caught recently in Yeo Valley with a hammock and bivvy. “He was just off the path but you could see him. They threw the book at him. Took him to court, fined him a grand, community service and everything. To be fair, he had a campfire, that’s probably what did him.”
The English have never taken kindly to trespassers or campers. The landowners, at least.
“You’re better off camping round here,” Ryan advised, “It’s all farmers. It’s a civil offense not criminal and they don’t have the resources to take you to court.” His eyebrows arched like he’d stumbled on a realisation.
He left me at a petrol station shrouded in lime trees and continued to Kinder Scout.
I hadn’t even held my sign out when Graeme stopped. He was a softly spoken bus driver, coming home from a shift. He was sitting quietly crooked forward. He was bald with a ginger beard and blue eyes. My seat was warm from the bag of Chinese takeaway that he placed carefully in the footwell. Now it warmed my feet.
“Wow, what an evening,” I said as we set off. There was a small tractor chugging in a field, an idyllic scene. Graeme said there was a good wood to camp in though I wouldn’t be alone there on a Saturday night. He’d camped there before.
Graeme didn’t take me far. It was only a couple of miles to the bottom of the track. The light was still fine but beginning to fade.
Plaques on the path up there commemorated the Kinder Scout mass trespass. The mountain had been a popular walking spot for centuries but in the early 1900s, landowners began preventing access. Gamekeepers roved aggressively and were known to attack walkers with dogs. Eventually in 1932 several hundred people went up there together. A fight ensued but the event paved the way for the National Parks that arrived after the war.
Climbing out of the trees, the moorland spread out majestically. The trees dissolved. Across the reservoir, I could hear the woop of kids playing. It looked like there was a rental cottage over there. A family on holiday. Not a bad place for it. This pocket of natural beauty.
From the hilltops in the evening sun, you could across the moors to the villages below, the fields beyond that, and in the far distance, you could make out the grey tower blocks of Manchester. That’s England for you, I thought.