This was longer again than it was supposed to be, I missed the bus in Ashbourne by five minutes, and on a Sunday that is no joke.
Wigber Low was amazing and I’ll write more about it — neolithic grave platform and two tumuli, Roman remains and Anglo-Saxon burials and lead smelting, amazing.
Down to Bradbourne Mill, which was beautiful, over to Tissington, a planned estate village and very twee — much like that of Chatsworth House though not quite as grand. But it is also full of wells and traditions of dressing the wells, which was cool. Lots of Brexit signs. I am still regretting not getting pasties or a pie from the butchers. I did, however, visit the sweet shop.
Down to Fenny Bentley past a much more humble tumulus, a wonderful old hall that is all patchworked and complete with tower and farmhouse and looks small and I quite wanted it. It even had a moat once.
To the Tissington trail, an old railway line and paved and not quite what I wanted but still alright — especially the amazing tunnel and the graffiti warning to Dr Who — to Ashbourne, with its racist wooden sign across the main street announcing the Black’s Head. I’m not sure I want such things taken down or left to stand as a critique to remind us of how things used to be but only if I’m sure they remind of us of how things used to be. I’m not sure. Also, an inn in which Boswell stayed for a night. He’d love the plaque. There were no obvious pie or pasty shops there, and I am not sure I forgive them.
And then back to Kniveton, a lot of main road and some overgrown footpaths which was rather terrible, though there was one awesome squeeze stile with its two old stones made more secure by a white cabinet door. Then I was chased by mother cows with calves from a field (did they want food or to kill me? I just don’t know). I mean, the one cow starting going on furiously and running at me, not ambling, and the others followed her so I ran back because the holly hedge was impassable. They stared back at me when I reached safety. They did not continue in friendly fashion to inquire about food. They were probably alright because I had no dog, but on that tractor ride I heard of a man recently killed by cows ‘defending’ their calves, they’re not always alright. I got home and everyone was out checking livestock on far flung fields belonging to friends and a brother-in-law, so I made myself a sandwich of St Agur and chorizo and snagged a banana.
Sunday. I am tired and it’s work tomorrow.
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