Bakewell, which owes part of its fame to the luxurious pastry known as “Bakewell Pudding”, has perhaps the most beautiful situation of any Peakland town. It is eminently quaint, there is an aristocratic air about the place, and the principal streets are kept wonderfully clean. At fair times may be seen crowds of booths reaching from the “Rutland Arms”, to the post office—booths where are sold gaudy pots from Staffordshire, gingerbread flat and curly, fried fish, and the sticky sweetmeats beloved by children of country and of town. In the marketplace are galloping horses, swings, shooting galleries, and everything that from long usage appeals to the innocent rustic mind.
There are many handsome old houses here, but the finest, Holme Hall, is not visible from the highway. The church is a graceful building, admirably placed, with a tall slender spire, which looks its best when pricking through a golden December mist. Near the porch is a curious epitaph: “Know, posterity! That on the 8th of April in the year of grace, 1757, the rambling remains of John Dale were, in the 86th year of his pilgrimage, laid upon his two wives.
“This thing in life might cause some jealousy,
Here all three lye together lovingly;
But from embraces here no pleasure flows,
Alike are here all human joys and woes;
Here Sarah’s chiding John no longer hears,
And old John’s rambling Sarah no more fears;
A period’s come to all their toylesome lives,
The good man’s quiet, still are both his wives.”