Wandering The Peak District

21 Apr

A Windy Night and a Bright Morning in the Peak District

It had been a busy week working with Bryn Teg Ceramics, helping Clair deliver bespoke handbuilt ceramics to local stockists around Anglesey and across North Wales—the Oriel Môn, The Bay Tree Gallery, and the Pensychnant Conservation Centre.

Then it was time to head east for my other job: working on the NHS emergency frontline. The last run of night shifts had been relentless, and while I’m used to the pace, three consecutive nights leave you feeling hollow. Between shifts, I needed fresh air—somewhere wide and wild enough to clear the mind and let the body settle.

The wind had been fierce all afternoon and through the night in the Peak District. Up on Higger Tor and Stanage Edge, the northerly gales were icy, so I took shelter lower down, tucking myself among tall trees at Blacka Moor. This 447-acre nature reserve was bought in 1933 by Alderman J.G. Graves to protect it from development, and on a night like this, it offered exactly what I needed—quiet, cover, and space.

From the van’s back window, I watched storm clouds roll across the horizon, their underbellies glowing with sudden flashes of lightning. The thunder grumbled a moment later. Inside, the diesel heater hummed, blankets kept the cold at bay, and I sipped a hot drink while reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

By morning, the gales had eased. A friend from work met me, and together we set off into the gnarly, moss-covered woods. Stepping stones led us across bubbling brooks, and the path climbed steeply from the valley to Devil’s Elbow. The song of a wren—loud, certain, impossible to ignore—cut through the morning air.

At the top, the moorland opened wide, its rough heather and grasses a stark contrast to the distant sprawl of Sheffield’s high-rises and factory roofs. The scent of gorse—rich and coconut-sweet—drifted on the breeze. Overhead, skylarks rose in spirals, their calls a steady, jubilant soundtrack.

We dropped down into Burbage, following the bridleway beneath the towering gritstone edges. The path led us towards the Longshaw Estate and The Fox House Inn, passing the rugged earthworks of the Iron Age fort at Carl Wark and the higher ridge of Higger Tor.

It was the kind of walk that presses itself into memory—not because it was dramatic or difficult, but because it was real and grounding. And, as all good walks should, it ended with a hot, hearty meal and a fire-warmed seat in a 17th-century country pub.