Dark Peak Warts

A splendid clear warm evening for fast footpath running with a top route devised by Moz including Houndkirk Hill, ex- Bull Nose Header (who would pinch a brick?) Unhidden Totley Trig, Hidden Totley Trig, & Houndkirk Hill revisited. The dip in the ground next to the unhidden trig providing a perfect shelter for the Whisky & Sour Sweet & Mars Bar & Winegum stop, before everyone braced themselves for what was surely going to be a long search led by yours truly to find the hidden trig, just beyond the stepping stones at the foot of Blackamoor. To everyone’s surprise including mine, it was found without fuss which put us in good heart for the blast back to the Norfolk Arms. They cant be many finer feelings than having a good fast, bracken, heather & bog free run, followed by sitting on a leather settee with your clubmates (well those that can be bothered cross Redmires Road anyway) with a pint of Moonshine in your hand.

AM

We now have a track, albeit cobbled together from 2 incomplete ones, and missing the second climb of Houndkirk Hill.

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A run which will surely go down in the anals as a “thank f… we survived it!” It started off inauspiciously by pissing down with the sort of rain that gets into every orifice, the path down Doctors Gate was a small fast flowing river, no sign of drought on Bleaklow. At some point we turned right into a clough and then proceeded to scale an “Extreme” cliff, which certainly set the bowels moving. Penny has cause to remember this for some time as she froze on the smallest of slippery ledges with nothing but black void above and below (Quote: “I signed up to do fell running not bloody rock climbing!”) The next point was a pond, ‘nough said and then up the edge of Dowstone Clough with the sound of a raging torrent that would have swept all before it had we attempted to cross it, well below. Some daft chough (Tom Westgate) decided that Bleaklow Head would be a good place to visit and so we did and it wasn’t, but amazingly we did find it in the black void. By this time it was agreed by all but Tom that we had had enough fun and so set off in a southerly direction in the freezing cold, black void. It has to be noted that Messrs Westgate and Holmes, after suggesting that we follow their lead in the void, disappeared and abandoned the rest of the party to their fate. The Safety Officer (had he been available) would have been beside himself with rage at this gross neglect and blatant abandonment of standard procedure but most of us were too knackered to care just wanting to get back to the cars in any direction. So after talking Maurice out of going back north again, we set off south and, praise be, found the path. An interesting “run” and one which was quite nice when it ended!

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It made a pleasant change to run in the White Peak. No trudging through heather, without trespassing, needing to climb walls, barbed wire or fences. A trip through the Cressbrook Tunnel was added to the Thornbridge race route where the going was soft, the excrement around the farms deep and the views excellent – it was a bit quieter out there than the traditional August date for that route though. Post race beers were taken at the Monsal Head Stable Bar where the Buxton Blonde and Wincle Undertaker Bitter were on fine form
Jim

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Some 25 or so finely tuned Dark Peak athletes plus a guest from Kendal AC set out on this mild night. The run started with a wade through the upper reaches of the reservoir, followed by a long drag up to Wet Stones, the navigation to which was impeccable! From here we set off in an optimistic frame of mind to find the picnic tables and tin shack which is somewhere in a clough somewhere in the moor. To our amazement, we found it without any bother and consumed whisk(e)y and sundry snack items at the tables, it has to be said that the service was poor, however. From here, we set off to find the Stirling bomber wreck. Now bear in mind that this is on a featureless bit of moor and that we approached it from a featureless bit of moor, so, being honest, the chances of finding a bit of pipe sticking up in the dark featureless moor were slim! And so it proved to be. Search abandoned we set off for Margery Hill trig which was found with the usual accuracy. From here the group split, those that actually fancied a run went down Cut Gate, the walkers went over Cranberry Clough and arrived back much later! Oh and happy birthday to Jim who enjoyed the perfect 58th birthday treat!

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A very pleasant run through the snow via the Dukes Road, Fox Stones, Pike Low and the tram-track bridge. Harmony prevailed all night, and the Belgian Blue slipped down nicely in the Nags thereafter. Good to see Mr Harvey (aka “God”) in attendance, and young master Beresford for some of the proceedings. A reet good night all round.

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Broomhead access gate being a step too far for some of us, we assembled at Hugh’s Hut in Stoney Middleton for a run over to Longstone Moor, ably led by Peter Gorvett. An uneventful run apart from the section on the way home when a cow decided to join in. Fortunately a few sharp words sent it on its way. Excellent refreshment in the Moon inn, where we outnumbered the rest of the customers by 3:1.

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A mild night and a good turnout. Moz was to be congratulated for designing a course that even he managed to get lost on, as he (and a number of others) failed to find the pond near Friar’s Ridge which those that did find it, did so as a pure fluke!! The going was officially described as “moist” to good which meant that we were wading knee deep through a good portion of this “race”  The checkpoints for interests sake where:

• the haunted house on the conduit
• the small pond in the middle of nowhere near the lodge
• the bus shelter near High Neb
• the other pond in the middle of nowhere, near the lodge
• the pond in the middle of nowhere on Friar’s ridge
• Rud Hill summit in the middle of nowhere
• a long wallow back to the start/finish

My meanderings are shown below!!

Chris Barber

 

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A game of two thirds this one … (reasonably) fine to Stanage Pole, then an especially grim bog trot and flounder in search of the third pond of the evening which, as the track testifies, I appear to have passed a good 200m to the south. Didn’t stop me getting my feet very wet, and failing to correct the line to Rud Hill (not always easy when you’ve no real idea where you are). Enough tussocks and bog to keep even the most stalwart of warts happy; and nobody paid much heed to Moz’s increasingly desperate talk of lines and good running at the finish. Congratulations to Neil N on another wartin’ victory, and thanks to Moz and John for organising the whole shootin’ match. It’d be interesting to know just how many people actually found that last pond, mind.

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Having declared the tentatively advertised route to Alport Castles “contrived”, and determined that we should tackle Kinder instead, Cap’n Harmer (that most empathetic of warts) spotted Andy M’s lip all a-quiver and promptly reverted to said Alport route. Off we went then, up a bit, along a bit (on an endless pavement of slabs, occasioning some unpleasant flashbacks for recent participants in the Trigger), alighting eventually at the summit of the Tower. Down a bit, up a bit, some whisky (but no ruffles), bog along quite a bit, down a bit, some fence vaulting, and finally back to the cars via some tarmac a bit. Big Bob, the only real man amongst us, chose to finish with a solo ascent of Crookstone Knoll, joining us all a little later in the Ladybower. Contrived seems a fair description in hindsight, but Andy M was happy, and Andy H glad to have obliged.

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Eleven stalwarts lined up for a good old fashioned soaking on Emlin Ridge; certainly the foulest weather of the season thus far and possibly the wettest wart from start to finish that I’ve had the pleasure to enjoy in the past four years. It was evident from the outset that conditions were somewhat awry as young Master Harmer arrived resplendent in full waterproof clobber, tops and bottoms. Having splashed our way around the trig, shooting cabins, plantations and reservoir, we repaired to the Nags Head where the loudest cheer of the evening was reserved for the news that rain had stopped play at the Sportsman … but I wouldn’t want to steal Brother Barber’s thunder on this matter, who should be along shortly to expand in whatever way seems most appropriate to him.

As a coda, Lewis notes – “An article in the Guardian identifies High Bradfield as having gusts of 93 MPH on wednesday night/ thursday morning. No comment is made on the volume of water sloshing about.”

 

Not sure that I can add much to my esteemed colleague’s ramblings above. It was a memorable night and will be committed to the “anals” of warting history.  The highlight was receiving the text from our sometime warting colleague who was blacklegging at some other venue, pointing out that the race had been cancelled due to bad weather (pah!) – a term hitherto never mentioned on a warts night!