Sunday 28 June 2009 - Littleborough to Derby

Littleborough - Delph - Stalybridge - Glossop - Buxton - Ashbourne - Derby

After the usual morning routine, we bid our hostess farewell and commenced our journey by immediately committing a gross navigational error, heading north to the A58 instead of south on the quiet B6225 which would have taken us directly to Milnrow. This mistake cost us a diversion of several miles, skirting Rochdale via the A664 and A640 to reach the same point. At a set of lights I stopped, correctly, in the marked green area for cyclists in front of the traffic. When the lights changed, the driver of the car behind me vented his road rage at having to wait an extra second before he could turn left, saluting me with the cry “KNOBHEAD!” We encountered no further verbal abuse after this for the remainder of the trip, all instances having been in this area to the north east of Manchester. Thanks, Mancs.
At Newhey, we continued south on the A663 to Shaw where we were presented with a choice of routes, of which the left turn on to the B6197 appeared by far the simplest as it avoided the urban sprawl of Oldham. A friendly cyclist confirmed this, but warned us that the road was initially seriously steep. Looking down the road, it appeared to be a dead end blocked by an insurmountable wall of steep moorland. Our friend confirmed that the road did indeed go right over the top.
The day was already hot and I poured with sweat as I pushed my bike up the steepest section. From the top of the moor we enjoyed a superb outlook, the view west of the foothills of the Pennines disfigured by the great grey scab of Manchester. We met several local cyclists on unladen bikes, taking advantage of the moorland switchback for a Sunday morning spin. We crossed the A672 and then plummeted down into Delph as our brake blocks dispersed into the morning air.
We followed the A6052 through Delph, seemingly unchanged since the 19th century, and past Dobcross where we picked up the A670 to Greenfield. Here, acting on another recommendation of a local cyclist we met along the way, we turned on to the B6175 which took us all the way to Stalybridge, through Carrbrook and Millbrook, with the Pennines towering above us to the east.
The B6175 had been mostly downhill, with one or two sharp rises, but as soon as we turned on to the A6018 at Stalybridge we had to tackle a relentless ascent out of town. I dislike urban cycling even on the flat, but combined with a testing gradient it becomes decidedly unpleasant. I always suspect passers-by are amused by my agonised grimaces as I toil uphill, and the heavy traffic, forcing me into the gutter through the broken glass and grids with longitudinal slots, compounds my distress.
At Mottram we joined the horrendously busy A57, where we escaped the nose to tail traffic by crossing the road and cycling along the pavement before turning right for Glossop. Now back in our home county, the A624 exit road from the town was the most soul-destroying section of the entire trip. The climb up on to Chunal Hill in the heat offered no respite and proved to be John’s nemesis. He’d been fighting increasing pain in his foot and had now reached the point of no return. He tried to walk with his bike but his foot was twisted almost at a right angle and gave serious cause for concern. His ride was over.
This was obviously our lowest point and we were all devastated. John phoned his girlfriend Nikki to arrange a lift home. Paul was very glum and wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to continue. He stayed with John by the roadside grass verge while I plodded on uphill, thinking I would probably have to continue alone.
At long last I reached the lay-by at the summit of the road and bought a cup of tea from the greasy spoon van. There was no shade, so I sat in the blazing sun, dehydrating faster than I could drink. I finished my tea and bought another along with a large blueberry muffin. Before long, Paul appeared and ate most of my muffin. He’d decided to carry on, but still wasn’t sure about the second half of the trip. His primary concern was his son’s welfare, and he’d left John with the kindly staff of a nearby hotel who looked after him while he waited for Nikki.
We continued south on the A624, up and down across the western flanks of Kinder, through Little Hayfield and Hayfield and into Chapel-en-le-Frith where we joined the A6. This was quite unpleasant at first but it improved once we passed the new motorist-friendly section, and we stopped at Dove Holes to phone John who was now in Nikki’s car heading home on the A6. When we reached Buxton, we stopped to take advantage of the precious shade of some trees on a grass verge before dropping down into the town where we relaxed outside a pub with a coffee and a couple of bags of crisps - hardly the best method of rehydration.
It was approaching late afternoon and Paul expressed doubts as to whether we could reach Derby by nightfall, even suggesting looking for overnight accommodation in Buxton. I knew however that once we reached the start of the High Peak Trail, which wasn’t far away, we would reach Ashbourne very quickly by the Tissington Trail as it’s downhill all the way. We therefore needed the A515, and we followed the first sign for it.
What we hadn’t realised was that we had elected to take the A6, which does indeed reach the A515, but by a long circuitous route via the hilly and winding A5270. If we’d taken the next turning in Buxton, we’d have been straight on to the A515 and saved ourselves miles. Our mistake had been not noticing that the road number on the sign was in parentheses.
When we finally reached the junction of the A5270 with the A515 at Brierlow Bar, we erred again in not realising that this was in fact the start of the trail. Instead we continued along the undulating main road for miles and we were running out of water and at our wits’ end by the time we eventually got to Parsley Hay where we knew we could access the trail.
We replenished our water bottles at the visitor centre, but by now it was past 6.30 and the centre was closed, so we used water from the washbasin in the toilets, ignoring the “NOT DRINKING WATER” sign. Paul stopped to chat to a guy who we’d met at the Ashbourne end of the trail some weeks earlier and who had bored us by airing his extensive knowledge of everything cycle-related, particularly the history of Raleigh touring bikes like ours. He appeared to be an employee of the centre.
We set off down the High Peak Trail, soon turning on to the Tissington Trail, and reached Ashbourne in less than an hour. The trail was deserted by this time and I must have registered by far my highest average speed of the trip. The evening cooled to a comfortable temperature, our moods ascended the jollity scale and we were soon laughing and joking again. The only impediment to our progress occurred when we came up behind two Women on Horseback.
I have no doubt that 99.9% of Women on Horseback are extremely nice people who I would feel privileged to count amongst my friends. Unfortunately, all the ones I have ever met have belonged to the other 0.1% who seem to have attitudes totally incompatible with my own. No matter what I do or say, they’re always cross with me for one reason or another - rather like men wearing flat caps, especially if they happen to be playing golf.
I was, for the only time during the trip, leading on the Tissington Trail because I set off first and for much of the way the path was too narrow for Paul to overtake me. As I came up behind the horses, I noticed that they seemed to be nervously darting their heads about. I didn’t want to startle them, so I refrained from announcing our presence vocally and decided instead to cycle alongside them gradually, as unobtrusively as possible, and pass them slowly so as not to frighten them.
When the Women on Horseback saw us, they jerked on the reins, causing their poor steeds to freak out. They then proceeded to blame us. “Thanks for letting us know you were there, guys. You could try talking to us”, one of them snarled sarcastically.
At Ashbourne, we took the A52 rather than the steep old Derby road out of town. Although almost empty at this hour, I disliked it intensely, as I do all such stretches of modern dual carriageway which look pretty much the same throughout Britain. This section of road reminded me strangely of the A82 between Tarbet and Balloch.
We were soon back on the old A52 which seemed easy compared to what we had become used to, despite the climb out of Shirley Hollow. Near Brailsford, I caught up with Paul who was standing by someone’s driveway drinking a glass of squash. His new-found friend extended the same hospitality to me, and thus refreshed we set off on the final stage of our day’s journey. We turned off on to the B5020 at Kirk Langley and followed it to Station Road and Mickleover. Paul and I went our separate ways at the top of Chain Lane and I was home by 9.15pm. I chatted for a while to my neighbours and then walked round the corner to Surjit’s to buy a few cans of Stella. Bliss.