After Strines, from near which place there is another way to Cobden Edge, next, if travelling by train, we get to New Mills, and before long to Chapel–en–le–Frith, once again a point for new beginning, since it is here that we start for Castleton. This is a jaunt purely for pedestrians, and for vehicles not unwilling to linger on the way, being one long climb, from which even steam, that, like Lord Chatham, “tramples upon impossibilities,” for the present seems to shrink. England furnishes few such walks as this one from Chapel to Castleton, the concluding part in particular, by the ancient bridle–path, through the Windgates, or “Winnats,”—crags rising upon each side to a height so vast that at times we seem absolutely shut in. The hugeness and the loneliness of this wonderful chasm, the bare grey slopes and bluffs of projecting rock relieved only by the presence of a few sheep, powerfully recall the great passes amid the mountains of the distant north. Once, however, it must have been comparatively well trodden, the Winnats, up to about eighty years ago, having been the sole thoroughfare from Chapel into Hope Dale. The high–road now curls round by the foot of Mam Tor, or the “Shivering Mountain,” so called because of the continual dribbling away upon one side of the loose material of which this singular pile chiefly consists. The apex of Mam Tor is one thousand three hundred and fifty feet above the sea, yet so great is the elevation of all the surrounding country that it seems quite inconsiderable. Everywhere hereabouts, in fact throughout the journey, after leaving Chapel, a remarkable negative feature of the scenery is the absence of water. Plenty of the little recesses are here that remind us of those afar where moisture drips and sparkles on green moss. But we look in vain for the slightest trickling movement. There are none of the little springs which ordinarily upon the mountain–side seem longing for the time when they shall become cascades. In Lancashire a pass like the Winnats would have had a splashing and plentiful stream, or at all events would remind us of a Palestine wady. It is further remarkable that upon these hills there is no heather, nor is there a single plant of either whortleberry or bracken. The great attraction at Castleton consists in the caverns. The Blue–john mine should be visited in order to learn what stalactite drapery means; but the best part of the “Peak–cavern” is the vestibule, open to the daylight. Pushing into the interior, the vast altitude of one small portion, revealed for a moment by means of fireworks, no doubt has a kind of sublimity. Still there is nothing to please, unless it be pleasure to stand in a dark inferno that seems no part of our own world, and which can scarcely be entered without a feeling of dismay. The ruins of Peveril Castle, and the fine old Norman arch in Castleton church are both very interesting to the archæologist. The position of the former is most curious, the castle seeming from the foot of the hill to stand upon a simple slope of turf, whereas in reality just behind it there is an impassable abyss.
This inestimable line, the Midland, carries us also to “Miller’s Dale,” from which station there is a branch at an acute returning angle to Buxton; thence onwards to “Monsal Dale,” Hassop, Bakewell, Rowsley, Darley, and Matlock. Monsal Dale, ipsissima, has been called the “Arcadia of the Peak.” It may be so. Remembering the ancient and golden canon that it is the eye of the lover that makes the beauty, the judgment may be let stand as one that was true and just to the man who pronounced it. The poet asks, “Who can paint like nature?” Surely he forgot the sweet facility of the human heart; in any case, there are no festoons like those woven by the spirit of man. Hassop, the next in order, is the nearest point of departure, on foot, for Chatsworth, though Bakewell has somewhat the advantage as regards scenery upon the way. Bakewell is the centre also for Haddon Hall, reached thence, on foot, in half an hour. Rowsley supplies the carriage–way to Chatsworth, and a shady and retired walk thereto along the western side of the stream. From this point also access is easy to Lathkill Dale, and many another of the gems of Derbyshire. Darley Dale, with its majestic yew, one of the oldest and grandest trees in England, and Matlock, with its mighty Tor, are places for the longest of summer days—we can do with no less—when the sunshine is oriental and sunset is a kaleidoscope.
For a simple afternoon, there is nothing within easy reach more delicious than Miller’s Dale itself, the significance of which name is really the lucid and babbling Wye, in its sweetest portion, and the unique recess which holds Chee Tor, not to mention the pretty Wormhill springs. The entrance to the vale is close to the station, the path lying first through a long–extended grove of trees, then changing to the green turf of a most beautiful seclusion, the ground rising in pleasant slopes, smooth except where broken by uncovered rock, while by our side, all the way, the stream runs peacefully, circling at times in quiet pools, or quickening in ripples that seem to speak, the shallower parts decked with pebbles that are covered, when the sun shines, with lacework of leaf–shadows. The springs are at the foot of the slope where a steep and rugged path leads to Wormhill. The water wells out of the ground just as in the streets of a city when some great conduit underneath has given way, being derived, there can be no doubt, from some far–distant original source, whence it has travelled by secret subterranean channels. The phenomenon is in Derbyshire by no means an uncommon one. Streams in several places suddenly lose themselves in the ground, bursting out again, it may be miles away, after the manner of the Guadalquiver;—here, at Wormhill, it appears, nevertheless, to have its most pleasing illustration. The Tor is found in the magnificent gorge in front, a stupendous mass of limestone, rising vertically from the water’s edge, with a grand curvilinear outline of nearly a quarter of a mile in extent, the surface uniformly grey and bare, except for scattered ivy and a few iron–like yews that are anchored in the crevices. Upon the opposite side there is a corresponding cliff, but less precipitous, and clothed in every part with half–pendulous shrubs and trees. This wonderful scene may be reached also from Ashwood Dale, starting from Buxton, and when about half–way to Bakewell creeping down on the left to the margin of the stream. The path is romantic, but cannot be recommended, being in many parts difficult and here and there decidedly perilous.
