CHAPTER XI.

BY THE MIDLAND LINE.

But the dell, Bathed in the mist, is fresh and delicate As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, When through its half-transparent stalks at eve The level sunshine glimmers with green light.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

The opening of the Midland line through Marple, like that of the L. & N. W. through Disley, was hailed with immense delight by all lovers of country rambles. Access thereto previously was possible only on foot, or by canal, and in either case the journey was rather long. Chadkirk, soon reached, is a celebrated old village thought by some to preserve the name of the once greatly-honoured patron-saint commemorated also in Chadderton, Chaddock, Chatburn, and Chat Moss; by others, to refer to one "Earl Cedda." Be that as it may, the tradition of the old missionary's once abiding here still clings to Chadkirk, and a clear spring by the roadside, upon the left, going up the hill near the church, and now lined with mosses, is to this day "St. Chad's well." The earliest ecclesiastical notice of the place does not occur till temp. Henry VIII. The hill itself, Werneth Low, is one of the highest in Cheshire, and the first of several such in that odd piece of the county which runs away to the north-east, stretched forth, as an old topographer says, "like the wing of an eagle." Like all the other eminences hereabouts, it commands very noble and extensive views. So complete, in truth, is the look-out in all directions from the summit, that to walk from end to end, is like pacing a watch-tower. The plains of Cheshire and South Lancashire lie to the west; Lyme, Marple, and Disley are seen to the south; and eastwards there are inviting bits of Derbyshire, here separated from Cheshire by the Etherowe, the opposite side charmingly clothed by the Ernocroft woods, while in the distance rise the vast moorlands of Charlesworth and Glossop. If bound for Werneth Low it is best, perhaps, after all, to quit the train at Woodley, or to make our way to that place from Parkwood. In any case, until Werneth Low has been ascended, knowledge of our local scenery is decidedly immature.

The long and beautifully wooded glen extending from Romiley to Marple is Chadkirk Vale, and the stream, not as some suppose, the Mersey, but the above-named Goyt. That it is marked as the Mersey in Speed, and again in the Ordnance map, no doubt is true. White also calls it the Mersey,--all who do this considering that the Mersey begins with the confluence of the Etherowe with the Goyt, about half-a-mile below Compstall bridge. But the real point of commencing is where the Goyt is joined by the Tame, that is to say, a little below Portwood bridge, in the north-western suburb of Stockport. The ramble up the vale is in every portion delightful, closing in a deep ravine or clough called Marple Dell, the upper extremity spanned by the three great arches of "Marple Aqueduct." The height of this celebrated work from the bed of the river is nearly a hundred feet; yet, to-day it is overtopped by the Midland viaduct, from which, as we glide past, the dell is seen half as much again below. Aqueducts are common enough, and so are viaducts, but it is seldom that we have the opportunity of contemplating at the same moment a twofold series of arches of equal grandeur, the viaduct consisting of no fewer than thirteen. Everywhere right and left of the Goyt, hereabouts, there are unforbidden and usually quiet and shady paths, some of them possibly entered more readily by the ancient foot-roads from near Bredbury and Hazel-grove, but all converging towards Marple village. Three or four of the most interesting little cloughs or dells within the same distance of Manchester are here associated, the prettiest, perhaps, being those called Dan-bank wood and Marple wood. Lovely strolls are at command also by aiming for Otterspool Bridge, these chiefly through meadows and by the rapid river, which, when not perplexed by shifting islands and peninsulas, decked with willow-herb and butter-bur, glides with a stilly smoothness quite remarkable for one so shallow. At Otterspool the rush of water is sometimes very strong. In the olden times it was similar at Stockport, though now subdued by the constant casting in of dirt, if there be truth, that is, in the record that in 1745, when the Stockport bridge was blown up in order to check the retreat of the Pretender, it ran beneath the arches "with great fury." Upon the western banks of the Goyt, not very far from Chadkirk, perched upon a romantic natural terrace, there is another very interesting and celebrated Elizabethan mansion, Marple Old Hall, the more pleasing since, though subjected in 1659 to rather considerable alterations, it appears to retain all the best of the original characteristics. It is now draped also, in part, with luxuriant ivy. The historical incidents connected with Marple Hall are well known,--those, at least, which gather round the name of Cromwell. To our own mind there is something better yet,--the spectacle in the earliest months of spring of the innumerable snowdrops, these dressing the woods and slopes with their immaculate purity, almost to the water's edge.

Proceeding direct to Marple by the Midland, the choicest of the many walks now at command begins with descent of the hill upon the left, then, as soon as the river is reached,--keeping as near it as may be practicable,--through the lanes and meadows as far as "Arkwright's Mill." No Ancoats mill is this one. Originally called "Bottoms Mill," it was erected in 1790 by the celebrated Mr. Samuel Oldknow, of whom so many memorials exist in the neighbourhood, including a lettered tablet in Marple church, and who would seem to have been associated with Arkwright in many of his most important undertakings. The mill in question was built, as Mr. Joel Wainwright correctly states,[18] upon the lines of the famous one at Cromford. Embosomed in a romantic valley, and surrounded by fine trees, among which are walnuts--for in tree-planting, as in other things, Mr. Oldknow displayed exceptional good taste--it gives the idea less of a cotton-mill than of some great institute or retreat, and proves that in the country, at least, scenes of manufacturing need not by any means be, as usual, depôts of ugliness. Soon after passing the mill, the path continues by the river-side, through pleasant meads and under the shadow of the trees to the point where the stream is crossed by Windybottom Bridge, where the hill has now to be ascended, either leftwards for Marple Ridge and Disley, or turning to the right for Marple village. Either way, the walk is delightful, and always at an end too soon. Another charming way from Arkwright's mill to the bridge is along the slope on the Derbyshire side of the water, called Strawberry Hill, but this is only for the privileged. Down in this sequestered valley, if we love the sight of wild-flowers, there is always great store; in May the fragrant wild-anise, and in autumn the campanula.

A third excellent Marple walk is to go up the hill from the station, turn instantly to the right just above the line, and alongside of it, and at the distance of a hundred yards or so find our way to the bank of the canal, crossing this and entering the fields through a stile. The path then goes past Lea Hey farm, and after awhile past Nab Top farm, beautiful prospects all the way. On the right, far below, we now soon have the river, eventually treading the meadows called Marple Dale, through which it meanders, and at the end of which the path mounts through the wood and enters Marple Park, the way back to the village now self-declared.

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.

Footnote

[18: In his very interesting "Reminiscences of a Lifetime in Marple and the Neighbourhood," 1882, a contribution to our local literature which in the accuracy and variety of its entertaining details does the author genuine credit.]