A daft story...“Edale et le poisson grand”

I don’t know about my French (see title), but it was one hell of a big fish that arrived at the diner table on Sunday afternoon, as we sat in a pub in Edale, feet up and smiling with a rosy glow that comes from a day spent in the hills. Let me recount our journey to you. Some of this is true...

Edale is a small village, nay hamlet, which occupies the valley basin of the vale of Edale, marking the start of the Pennine Way and home to a great many more localised rambles and scrambles, hills, vales, bogs and hitherto undescribed natural wonders. Its rolling hills are home to a great many rabbits, hares and sheep, birds and other such creatures existing unspoilt and as nature intended. Water falls in quantity from great slabs of limestone, and legions of Sunday walkers, motivated by the pursuit of large open spaces, trample and climb there way to the top of the valley. Those that survive are greeted by exposed, boggy moorland and impressive views of the surrounding farmland and peaks.

Let me introduce our group. Ahead, walked Mr. Daniel Smith, a one time trumpeter with This Morning Call and infamous northern wit and impresario. To my left, Mr. Lee Marks, wannabe film-maker and critic, and renown purveyor of Tasmanian dark ales. To my right, Ms. Julia Madien, who made a name for herself singing musical numbers to orphans during Vietnam and has seduced her way into some of Manchester’s finest bordellos and boudoirs with only a stocking and a hat box to her name.

The clouds lifted and although the sun tried to warm us, it was to limited effect as we set out from the village car park, boots and waterproofs at the ready.  Although I insisted on travelling “map-free”, we felt no fear as we plunged into the unknown. It wasn’t long before the hills began to close in around us and we felt the firm hand of nature by our sides. Not for the faint hearted are the rough crags and stony precipices of the Grindlebrook. There are tales of goblins and trolls dwelling in them there hills, and the hills themselves have eyes, ready to trap a unsure hiker with a loose stone or sucking bog. Maybe an evil half-breed mutant with a gun and an unhealthy obsession with breast milk hides behind the next Tor. But we didn’t let such thoughts trouble us.

We scrambled our way up the valley, and with each turn the ground rose before us, great boulders were strewn across our path, and soon the time came to forge the stream itself. Ms. Maiden leapt gracefully from stone to stone, while Mr Smith and Mr Marks satisfied their imaginations by regaling our party with tales from Middle Earth. The climb became steeper as we neared the summit, near vertical in parts, and with the ever present danger of slipping and falling we had to take extra care, only allowing ourselves to stop for a few moments before toiling upwards, hearts in mouths.

The summit brought with it a fabulous view across the vale and an opportunity for Mr. Marks to compose a “hero shot” in his head, for his latest “blockbuster in development”, and, of course, with the wonders of modern technology, he received a phone call from the bank on his mobile as we began to traverse the hillock, apparently chasing a bad debt. “Now is not the time for banking”, I remarked, “Not when there are hills to be tamed and pies to be pursued. Onwards!”

The downward passage was blocked, so we had to take a more treacherous route on our return, most of which was conducted via the method of a rolling, or sliding, descent. That’s a technical term first described by Edmund Percival Hillary in 1953 as the best and quickest way to descend from a great height. Luckily, the soft, moorland grass provided an ample opportunity to get a wet bottom, and three dozen pratfalls later the descent was complete. We found ourselves returned safely to the village, and, of course, the local pub.

Upon entry to the pub, it was immediately apparent that we had found a haven. We quickly made ourselves at home. Food was ordered in quantity. We feasted on cooked meats, soup, crusty bread and chipped potatoes. Mr. Marks did indeed order one of the King’s own haddock, and it was a prize catch indeed. At almost fifteen feet long, the young gentleman proved his metal and polished the monster off in record time. He was followed in no uncertain terms by Ms. Maiden and Mr. Smith, who both consumed a whole sheep each. A royal feast!

And so, with a heavy heart and a sore toe, we removed ourselves from the vale and returned to Mancunia. Our heavy eyes and tired limbs sent us quickly to bed, to dream of hill and vale, brook and stream. To wake in the knowledge of a Sunday well spent. God bless this green and bountiful kingdom.