Padley Gorge to Grindleford and back

Still kicking myself. Seconds before leaving the house this morning, for a stroll with Jackie and Tebay, I contemplated bringing my grown up camera. Problem being I was on the ground floor while said item sat two floors above. Nah, I told myself. The light’s not great anyway.

Just the day before I’d written to a friend as follows:

I’m never going to be a great photographer: too lazy and too cowardly. I’ve learned that these twin enemies of excellence in that discipline – I doubt there’s a serious snapper on the planet who hasn’t ducked a potentially great shot out of fear, or because it called for effort – apply to life as a whole.

That’s me to a T: dispensing wisdoms I seldom heed myself. As we drive the few minutes to the Fox House Inn, I’m struck by the rare softness of the light. Already rueing my sloth, we turn left after the pub to take the B6521 to Grindleford a mile southwest, and park a stone’s throw from the footbridge shown at top right of the map.

Crossing the footbridge …

… we follow brook and valley downwardly south-southwest; traversing the open moorland of Lawrence Field to enter the wooded gorge in minutes. I’ve strolled these parts sixty years, man and boy, delighting in the upright pine, gnarled birch and oak; the steep brackened valley sides strewn with boulders cloaked in moss lit up in emerald iridescence by bursts of sunlight.

Shoulda brung the camera. For the optics, for light control, for the reach conferred by my most used lens – L-series f-2.8  70:200mm. I didn’t though. These phone cam efforts will have to do.

I can tell from the time stamp this is my last shot before we reach the no-nonsense, muddy-boot ‘n bike-tyre friendly cafe by Grindleford Station. If you sit outside you can stare into the blackly gaping entrance to Totley Tunnel, all 6230 yards of it. I whip out the calculator on my phone to establish – again – that this equates to 3.5397727273 miles. It’s a boy thing.

I once saw the smoke and steely blue of the Sir Nigel Gresley disappear into that tunnel …

… while on blue remembered summer evenings I’ve picked bilberries on Totley Moor, by tunnel vents not quite hidden by bracken, heather and those delicate leaves, gnarled woody stems and berries of deep purple.

We don’t sit outside today. The yards-to-miles conversion done – with me old enough to have it drilled in that 1760 yards maketh a mile, as do eight furlongs or eighty chains (wicket to cricket wicket lengths) – we take a table in the coal fire warmth of the old waiting room to tuck into a monster plate of the finest chips money can buy.

Shoulda took a pic of ’em but forgot – should absent-mindedness join indolence and cowardice as the third enemy of excellence? Pass. All remaining shots are taken as we retrace our steps on the upward and northward hike up the gorge.

Above the treeline we have unimpeded views to the north of the iron age hill forts at Higger Tor and Carl Wark

Now here’s where I really could have used my grown-up kit.

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