TOTMONSLOW 05.10.2014
John Perrin's rides through Cheshire and the Peak District are always fascinating, so when he suggested I join him on the only foreseeable dry day to try his new 200k Permanent, I needed no persuasion. The only problem was that my usual bike was being re-sprayed but that was solved by John's offer to loan me his Mercian and after a transfer of pedals (I don't ride clip-less) we set off at about 7.30am from Broken Cross, near Macclesfield. It was a crisp morning in early October and I was full of anticipation.
Alfred The Great created the administrative divisions known as Hundreds and Totmonslow is one of the five that made up Staffordshire. Our route would pretty well circumnavigate it. Staffordshire is a top heavy county, with the hilly Peak District in its upper half. We would have some flatter riding in the south but the first and last sections would be decidedly strenuous. After a gentle rise out of Macclesfield towards Sutton, we were soon into the real business, climbing through the rugged terrain to the east. Names like Wildboarclough give a feeling for what the area and its history are like.
Away to the south were views of the Roaches and Hen Cloud, and we were already looking down on them.
A little closer in the valley below was the landslip known as Lud's Church, a grotto like cleft in the rock, which is rumoured to have been a secret place of worship for the Lollards, as well as a hiding place for Robin Hood,Bonny Prince Charlie and the inventor of the pot noodle. Perhaps the most fascinating legend claims that it is the setting of the fateful green chapel in Sir Gawain And The Green Knight.
This must have been harsh terrain in which to make a living and, sure enough, there are the remains of small quarries and coal-pits dotted around. After an hour or so's climbing and imagining, I was looking forward to a coffee at the first checkpoint, when John suggested a diversion from the route, partly to make sure we didn't get to the checkpoint before it was open, but mostly because he can't resist poking about in the countryside to see what else there might be to make life hard. So we clawed our way up towards Hawk's Nest on a collection of surfaces, some rideable, others not. This sort of aberrant behaviour doesn't make for the fastest ride but it is a very attractive approach and I am endlessly fascinated to see old workings and green lanes with the thrill of the past around every corner – and, of course, the possibility of a broken neck around some of them.
When we finally regained the route and ended up at Flash Bar stores, opposite the Travellers Rest on the Buxton road, we had made the grand average speed of 11kph. But I wasn't bothered whether or not we got round “in time” as we enjoyed our drinks in the open air.
The official route takes riders through Flash village itself, which claims the highest village pub in England.
We certainly made up time on the fast main road descent towards Buxton, with good views of the prominent hill, The Terret, on the left of the road. Down below to the right the extent of the quarrying was obvious, leading to the thought that most of the world drives on Derbyshire roads. Soon, we turned right for the haul up past Solomon's Temple (a welfare folly) to the village of Harpur Hill. This is tranquil enough now but was for many years an ordnance dump. Almost immediately on leaving the village we crossed the Roman road of King Street, now prosaically the A515, to enter the wonderful hidden valley of Cowdale. It was much more industrial than it is now and there is a sharp descent towards the end but it is a mile or so of paradise. Perrin does it again. The dale ends at the A6 below the Rhine-like cliff of Pig Tor. I thought for a moment I could hear a siren singing but it turned out to be a rubbing brake block. After a couple of hundred yards on the main road, we dropped down to the track along the River Wye. This is lovely riding. I have been along here when the river was so high its brown waters lapped the path but today it was like glass and the usually huge butterbur leaves were shrivelled up and blackened by the earlier summer heat.
O sylvan Wye, thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
Wordsworth was writing of a different Wye (in Tintern Abbey) but the words are just as appropriate in Derbyshire.
At the third railway bridge, we carried the bikes up some steps to joing the Monsal Trail.
This is the trackbed of the London – Buxton – Manchester line that caused the aesthete John Ruskin so much heartache. It's now a great public amenity and is thronged with cyclists and walkers for almost ten miles. After a chain of tunnels and viaducts and the staggering view at Monsal Head,
we stopped at Hassop Station for receipts. They weren't very satisfactory, so I took pictures of John doing his great explorer impersonation.
We left the trail at Bakewell and dropped into the town where, surprise, surprise, John had found a crease on the map which manifested itself as a lane up the side of a cliff. This delivered us, in various states of distress on the road towards Youlgreave, which, as John had it, is more of a prophecy than a place name. It is certainly challenging dropping down to the River Lathkill and climbing up again. I'm afraid I was in no state to verify the Lathkill's reputation for disappearing beneath the limestone. Much more of this and I would be beneath a stone myself, returning to my rumoured place of birth. From Youlgreave we climbed Mawstone Lane. This was tough and the descent needed care. Another effort brought us to Elton, which was for many years the home of the climber Alfred Gregory, photographer on the first confirmed ascent of Mount Everest.
After, you've guessed it, another climb, we crossed the Cromford road with views ahead of the ancient burial mound of Minninglow. By devious means we found ourselves in an unnamed dale. It debouches in the village of Ballidon, near the huge Tilcon quarry and John suggested we call it Ballidon Dale. However, as we were stuck behind a group of some hundred or so “guided” cyclists for its whole length, I will always think of it as Snail Dale. Nevertheless, it's another of John's triumphs and will be a real joy on a quieter day.
Regaining a little solitude, we were soon bowling towards the ford below Bradbourne. It was virtually dry this time but I have seen it so deep that people were fishing in it. I was enjoying a short burst of rapid riding when John hauled us off the road to climb a stony track, which just had to be walked. There were all manner of interesting sheep on this short section before we returned to the road and the hamlet of Kniveton. A few kilometres of plunging and soaring along Kniveton Brook brought us to the southern edge of the Peak District, near Ashbourne.
John had told me how abruptly the terrain changed beyond Ashbourne but I was still struck by the difference. The mysterious, short dales, with their rocky sides, disappearing streams and overwhelming greenness, were replaced by a huge quilt of of rolling farmland, with rich, red soil and a lattice of hedgerows. We were still in Derbyshire but well on the way to Staffordshire and Cannock Chase, where we would head north-west for the run back to Broken Cross. Our speed gradually increased as we approached the southern edge of our ride. I seemed to be getting alternate scents of coffee and burning rubber but I didn't see any cafés and although we were making up time we certainly weren't burning our tyres. I thought I must be imagining it, until we passed through Hatton, where the Nestlé's factory dwarfs the town. This certainly confirmed me in my attitude to instant coffee!
Almost immediately on leaving Hatton we crossed the fine bridge over the River Dove towards Tutbury. The River Dove meanders for about forty miles from remote (and legendary to cyclists) Axe Edge in the north, forming the western boundary of Derbyshire before flowing into the Trent a few miles beyond Tutbury. We climbed and descended through the remains of Needwood Forest. Soon came the wonderfully named Hamstall Ridware which sounds like a place that would send you a cataloque for pest extermination. We finally reached the Trent, by now a mere trickle compared with its width where it flows into the Humber far to the north-east. We were now heading west and as we crested a climb there was one wonderful moment where I had a thatched cottage in my left eye and Rugely power station in my right.
Our next control was at Armitage, which was much less of a toilet than might be imagined from its name: it's the Armitage of Shanks fame. Soon we began our meander through Cannock Chase, along nearly ten miles of cycle paths, loose, stony descents and even good tarmac. It's a fabulous area of woodland and clearings, presumably an ancient hunting demesne, with a bit of coal-mining thrown in for the peasants. It's now rather crowded at the weekend, understandably sucking in visitors from as far away as Wolverhampton and Walsall, even Birmingham and (whisper it) Macclesfield and Rochdale. For a more tranquil experience, I'd recommend a mid-week ride. We were still up against it for time and I was again forced to take a snap of John at the Visitor Centre, which had just closed.
Occupying high ground between Stafford and Lichfield, the Chase is by no means flat, and we had a long climb along excellent tarmac before a circumspect descent along a stony track brought us out of the trees on the north-west edge. We were back in the Trent Valley and enjoying a beautiful autumn evening's riding past thatched cottages and the occasional timbered buildings, some but not the one pictured!) with wonderful herring-bone brickwork of long ago. A pub with a fabulous display of busy lizzies and aubretia in hanging baskets was very tempting but we still had time to make up.
This ride has 3000 metres of climbing and my instruments indicated that we still had about 1000 to do after leaving the Chase. Sure enough, after a few kilometres, we re-entered the Peak District near Milwich and worked our way north towards Cheadle. A very short spell on the A50 brought us to Totmonslow, which gives its name to the ride. The village sign is about the only evidence we saw on our extensive survey of the Totmonslow Hundred, hardly meriting single figures, really; the sign and a copper lion that the eagle-eyed John had spotted nailed to a garden gate when he was scouting the ride. With the owner's blessing it now adorns the routesheet.
Cheadle itself has the wonderful contradiction of having a church (St Giles RC) designed by the brilliant Pugin, who did the interiors of the Houses of Parliament, and the ultra-modern “build it so it's easy to demolish” JCB works, which stands on the site of an old colliery. The former is known as “Pugin's Gem”; the latter can probably be seen from space. By now the computer was saying that we were actually a little ahead of the asking rate, so I thought I might as well puncture. It didn't take us long to sort it out but it put us behind again. However, the road was good and we were soon eating up the deficit, in spite of darkness having fallen. There was a fine moon, one day before the full and it was the usual exhilarating experience to be riding at night.
The new tube lasted for a little over an hour before that sickening “bumpy road” feeling told me that it, too, had failed. Presumably there was something in the tyre but I couldn't find it and we put a folder on to save time. We did the repairs in a pub garden, under the lights and were much quicker than previously. I have to thank John, ever the gentleman, for permitting me to change tubes twice on his beautiful Mercian.
The road from Cheadle through Wetley Rocks to Leek is fast, if rolling, and I imagined we would bowl up it all the way to Macclesfield. But, as is his way, John had other plans and we were soon dropping away from the main road to cross the River Churnet and Caldon Canal at Horsebridge. I think it was along here that a badger burst through a hedge on our left, narrowly missing John's front wheel as it scrabbled desperately up the right bank, startled by our lights. I implored it not to re-cross through my wheels. Fortunately, it found a way through the hedge and we reached the bridge in safety.
John had mentioned the climb up to Ladderedge a little earlier and I told him to go on because I felt a banana was in order. As his brake light bobbed up the hill, I fell into conversation with a couple who asked the usual questions and received the usual answers. They offered to make me sandwiches at their house just beyond the bridge but I assured them that I had food in my bag and, after thanking them for their kindness, I set off after John. I've found that a bite to eat can make all the difference to one's perception of a climb and in short order I reached the crossroads where John was waiting. This funicular frolic, by the way, was to avoid what John considered to be a hilly climb out of Leek. In fairness, Leek's a bit of a trudge, especially on a busy night.
Back on the main road now, we passed through Rudyard, where Mr and Mrs Cake so enjoyed their stay that they named their son, the soon-to-be-writer, after it. By this time, the moon was slightly shrouded and Rudyard Reservoir (Cake Lake?) was like dull pewter below us. We were making good speed, and I kept expecting at any moment to see the orange glow of Macclesfield but it seemed a long time coming. The road was excellent, although there had been an ominous clank as John went over something which I didn't hit, or even see. When we finally dropped into Macclesfield we had about half an hour to get back to Broken Cross on the west of the town.
We were just allowing ourselves to feel smug about catching all our time up after going walkabout earlier on, when it was John's turn to puncture. It seemed that whatever he had hit earlier had done the damage. Hopefully it would be a slow puncture and we could get enough air in to get us the last couple of miles. But the remedy turned out to be slow, too, as John fought with a recalcitrant pump, or valve, or both. I suggested he take “my” bike and ride on to get his control receipt, while I walked in. He wouldn't hear of it and I suspect he's never liked that Mercian, which is why he put such rubbish tyres on it. Finally, he got some air into his and we rolled into the service station with a whole quarter of an hour to spare!
It had been a marvellous day out as I had known it would be. John has a great knack of discovering back roads and byways and if you are not obsessed with speed and don't mind challenging terrain, then his rides are for you. In fact, while I was writing this up, John contacted me to say that he'd been round again (no diversions this time) in well over an hour less than we had taken. It might be a more straightforward ride in the summer, when Cannock Chase Visitor Centre is open longer but the finish is fast and on good roads, so pretty much any time of year should be fine if you've got good lights.
I can't wait to see what he'll come up with next.