News Out of Cheshire: SHOCK HORROR THE T’HOUSE CLOSED

Many of you will have heard Weaver’s crazy stories of the Farmers (aka the T’house) being closed. I like you dismissed such talk as the wild ramblings of a man who’d had one too many shots of homemade humbug vodka. However, upon my return back to the Shire I can confirm that the rumours are true the T’house is closed! Details are sketchy about what actually happened, it seems that after a series of weekends where the T’house ran out of beer, one day the current landlord Big Ste just closed the T’house. He then apparently booby-trapped the place with a series of landmines, which he’d acquired back in his days in the Paras, before he left so it may take some time before it re-opens. In true Golden-eye style the T’house toilets have been particularly heavily mined.  However, according to the official magazine of the gay Cheshire real ale enthusiast ‘Out Inn Cheshire’  ‘Punch Taverns have given full assurance that they intend to restore the Farmers at the heart of the local community’ (p. 45 Autumn 2012).

Discussion within the upper echelons of the Cheshire Liberation Front have led to the following decisions: C4Lf moves to red alert and if the T’house doesn’t reopen within six months, we send in wave after wave of C4Lf foot soldiers and reclaim the drinking hole that is ours by birthright. We then set up the T’house as a Weetwood only freehouse, every C4Lf member abandons their day jobs, sells their homes and moves into the T’house to run it as a collective, sleeping in one big bed in the backroom like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Cheshire needs brave men and women to be part of the first wave to be sent into the T’house. Who loves their county enough to become a key member of C4Lf’s Lemming squadron?

In other news the closure of the T’house meant that Weaver and I had to spend Thursday evening at Kelsall’s other drinking establishments – the Republican Oak and the Lord Binning of Kelso. It was quiz night at the Oak and after Team C4Lf won the T’house quiz (sob sob it’s gone) on a previous trip back to the Shire I was confident that we’d have a good showing. Needless to say we came joint last, stupid Ben for misreading my text and getting the day wrong. However, we were able to witness an epic game of Play Your Cards Right in which some Oak woman won £476 quid – surely that is not a viable business model for a village pub quiz? The restaurant area of the Oak is in the process of being transformed into a deep pan pizza place called Collosomo’s – named after the 1920s Chicago gangster, so the quiz took place in the upstairs room where the snake stripper mum used to perform. Both the Eastgate and the Pendle bitter were fairly rancid unfortunately and I had to drink Cheshire Cat or Lady Weetwood as it is more commonly known. There was no Weetwood up at the Binning, however, the Paraolympics were on and the subject of much discussion. Mainly positive, although one woman was particularly enraged by a 7/7 survivor who’d lost both her arms in the bombings but now was competing in the back stroke: “She’d didn’t even go swimming before the bombings, what an attention seeker, it’s embarrassing.” Ahhh sweet sweet Cheshire, it’s good to be back.

On Friday I went to Tarporley to watch the England game with Ben and finally get a decent pint of Weetwood in the Swan. Walking down to the Foresters I was shocked to see how many boutiques there are now in Tarporley. I remember when it was just Karen Dash and I was all like – ‘stoopid Karen Dash, that’s never gonna work.’ Now I’m like – ‘why didn’t I set up a niche clothing boutique catering to WAGs and wannabe WAGs in Tarporley’ and Karen Dash is laughing in my face. On the plus side, there’s a new deli in Tarporley, which while not as good as the Skemmy Deli or Fresh corpse, does serve real Cheshire Cheese and the elusive Cheshire Blue. It’s satisfactorily pretentiously named Gastronomy and I urge all C4Lf members to go there to buy Cheshire Cheese to make the official dish of Cheshire – cheese on toast. Get there soon though because in six months, judging by the Mayfly-like lifespan of other Tarporley delis, it’ll have probably closed down to be replaced by a new Karen Dash spin-off: Karen Dash 3: Dash of Death.

For those following Weetwood’s steady expansion into the Tarporlian hinterlands, the Foresters was serving Lady Weetwood and the Swan had Cat, Best and Eastgate. The Crown looked eerily deserted as expected, while the Foresters seems to be in the place to drink in Tarporley nowadays (excluding Piste, which we didn’t make it to but I’ve been banned from doing full Tarporley crawls after I projectile vomited in the Rising Sun after DT’s curry night). Exciting news from Ben who is set to be performing in Tarporley Am Dram’s X-rated version of Calendar Girls as the photographer – oh the sights he’ll see. Ben will be performing on 21st to 24th of November (tickets from Swaffs) but will be also selling exclusive saucy pics of your favourite Tarporlian Milfs, Gilfs and GGilfs in the run up to the big show. If you’re interest contact him via facebook. All funds raised will be spent in buying Oscar Pretorius style blades for the survivors of C4Lf’s lemming squadron attempt to take back the T’house.

Gritstone Trail part 4

(Wild Boar Inn - Rose and Crown)

The Wild Boar Inn, Wincle review

Much to my disappointment the Wild Boar Inn in Wincle does not contain any of the 8.5% elixir of inebriation that is Old Tom. Those puritan Methodists have determined that the strongest pint I can get in this neck of the woods is a Unicorn. It does however contain the impressive pelt of a huge wild boar. Is this the last Wild Boar in Britain that was reputedly killed in nearby Wildboarclough (Hardman: Wildean Brian Chuff’s Mild Muff), probably not? In fact, Wikipedia stringently denies that this was where the last wild boar in Britain was killed but I’ll believe what I want to believe.

The pub was pretty quiet when we arrived at around 5.00, outside a sign provocatively advertises ‘Adult only camping’. Sexy times indeed. Inside there’s one couple in the corner and then a lone man at the bar nursing his pint and watching Shrek on the TV intently from his bar stool. There’s a stark, simple beauty to the pub reminiscent of Sean Bean’s face in a gritty police drama set in the 1970s. I keep expecting the Shrek enthusiast at the bar to turn to us and say ‘this is the Peak district and we do what we want.’ The pub wins the best decor category of pubs on our walk with 4.3 and turns out be Smit’s favourite pub. SMIT: ‘controversial, I'm going for the second last one on day1, everything a pub should be and not in gentrified Disney neither.’ I like Smit’s satirical name for Disley there, Rory Bremner would be proud. It does however, suffer from the somewhat funerial atmosphere that seems to be very much on trend with Gritstone Trail pubs. Perhaps it perks up later when the folk night begins.

The Wild Boar Inn, Wincle review

Decor	4.30
Atmos	2.80
Booze	2.60
Clientelle	3.00
Barstaff	3.50
Total	3.24

With Andrea soon to arrive with our vast array of camping implements and most importantly my two cartons of cider, we press on with the final mile and a half to Wild Boar Clough (Hardman: Wide boy Brian’s up the duff) and the no doubt luxurious camping barn that I’ve booked for our accommodation. We head over the top of a hill and descend into a valley. Smit remarks about how he’s liking how the landscape is taking on more of a peak district vibe, with its dry stone walls and gnarled trees bent by the wind. A car drives past us, which turns out to be Andrea heading to the barn. She stops briefly but there’s no room in the car for us to cadge a lift and even if there was we wouldn’t take it as it would invalidate the walk in the eyes of our glorious leader – El Presidente who’s a stickler for such things. We descend into a valley and pass a small converted Methodist church with cows in the adjacent field perplexed by their own reflections in the stain glass windows and then up past the pub where we plan to dine that evening. It’s the Rose and Crown and much to my pleasure has a folk and Irish night on tonight. More importantly it’s doing food until nine and there’s some guest ales on, which will make a change after the uninspiring Robinson’s we’ve had so far.

There’s no time to dawdle as we head down to the Camping Barn to dump our rucksacks. At this late stage of day one the track seems to go on forever but I’m pleasantly surprised when I see a large converted farmhouse in front of me with a glass veranda and satellite dishes. ‘A bargain at 75 quid’, I say to myself and mentally pat myself on the back, ‘the website really doesn’t do it justice’. Andrea however, brings me down to earth. ‘The doors round there’, she says pointing to a much smaller and admittedly more barnlike building in front of the palatial farm house ‘lucky we’re used to sleeping rough at the Gwrdu’. I walk inside the stone barn, which is basic but suitably authentic for taking in the hardiness of East Cheshire Peak District life. I take a brief glance at the electricity metre but head up the wood stairs to bagsy the best bed. Imagine my surprise then when I get to the first floor and find that it’s just that... a floor. There are no bunks at all, just a tiny one foot ledge, which even Smit in his skinniest days couldn’t use for a bed.

A couple of things come to mind. One assuming that ‘no bunks’ on the website meant that there were no BUNK beds and every bed was a single story was not a mistake. And two – this, the lack of beds, is the difference between a camping barn and a youth hostel and this is why you can book a camping barn for £7.50 a person. Still I think to myself this will be a valuable insight for the members of  C4Lf into the life of a ‘primitive Methodist Gritstone miner’ and how cold can it possibly get, it’s Easter for God’s sake? I cheerfully head downstairs and announce to the assembled C4Lfarians that there aren’t  any beds.  Ben initially laughs at this but then like the doubting Thomas he is, he is forced to behold the truth with his own eyes. BEN: ‘The worst moment would have to be the moment that I realised fran was telling the truth and there really weren't any beds in the stone tent.’ Tone reads the literature provided which lists the rules of the barn, intriguingly the text begins: ‘the camping barn is basically a stone tent.’ This strikes me as a novel idea as I’ve never heard of a stone tent before, I will find out why later.

We head up to the Rose and Crown pub to get some food, listen to folk and to drink enough of a beer jacket to allow us to get to sleep on the hard wooden floor.

The Rose and Crown, Allgreave, review

Now how to describe the Rose and Crown, to paraphrase a Tale of Two Cities ‘it was the best of pubs, it was the worst of pubs’. Unlike the other pubs which had been decidedly chilly to us. The rose and crown certainly gave us a warm welcome, particularly the landlady, or as we shall know her ‘the rose’. The pub had already filled up for the folk night so we took a seat in the backroom. The beer looked initially promising with a special beer on brewed by Guy Garvey of Elbow. However, much like the music of Elbow it turn out to be lacking in strength and somewhat bland (Sorry El Presidente I know you’re a big Garvey fan). Tone with her ‘no ales below 5% rule (‘even on a session?’ ‘Especially on a session!’) was particularly disparaging.

Then there was the landlord, or as he shall be known, ‘the Crown’. He was initially full of charming banter, or as it’s known in the trade ‘wicked bants’. He even allowed Smit to charge up his iphone, using his electric socket. A request that is met with frowns, suspicion and ambiguity in the pubs of neighbouring Staffordshire. However, as the evening went on he became somewhat of a divisive figure  asking us to check the Blue Jays score on our iphone so he could casually drop into the conversation that he’d lived in Canada and somewhat (pedantically in my eyes) lecturing us on the difference between porter and stout. Hardman, Smit, Tone and Andrea all found his raconteuring charming, giving the barstaff scores of 4s and 5s. Ben and I however, felt it was all a bit too much like he was playing the big man and so gave him 2 and 2.5 respectively. However, it’s perhaps just a reflection of Ben and my insecurity in the presence of this mighty Alpha Male, the last Wild Boar of Wildboarclough reigning supreme in his Peak District valley. Hardman and Smit are clearly Beta males and so naturally gave him a high score due to their subservient toadying, rolling on their backs, exposing their genitals and whimpering to their master. While Tone and Andrea probably rated him highly because of his raw sexually magnetism, tossing 4s and 5s in his direction as women of a certain age might throw their knickers at Tom Jones . Anyway, some credit has to be given to the hospitality of the Rose who came round and offered us free sandwiches during the interval of the folk. Perhaps rightfully winning the Rose and Crown the title of best ‘Bar staff’ of all the pubs on the trail.

As to the folk itself it won the Rose and Crown best atmosphere with a really high score of 4.42. And yet... and yet there was something slightly disquieting about the experience. Practically, everyone who’d come to the folk night were playing in it and you could imagine the same line-up had been playing here for the last thirty years. Secondly the general atmosphere was somewhat maudlin, lacking in pub folk favourites; there was no ‘whiskey in the jar o’, no ‘Dylan’, no ‘duelling banjos’. There was quite a lot of harp solos and plenty of accordion in the minor key. Unlike other pub folk night I’ve been to and sang along, this night felt like more of a closed affair. As if they were mourning a local Gritmining tragedy and this was no place for outsiders. Still interesting from a sociological perspective and a good insight into what you do for kicks on Saturday night in East Cheshire’s peak district.

The Rose and Crown, Allgreave review

Decor	3.83
Atmos	4.42
Booze	3.33
Clientelle	3.50
Barstaff	3.58
Total	3.73

The atmosphere might also have felt slightly muted as we steeled ourselves mentally for an under-prepared night in a freezing stone tent, while various mutinous members of C4Lf played the role of a belligerent Oliver Hardy muttering ‘this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into’ to Fran’s increasingly befuddled Stan Laurel. Do all the C4Lf members survive the night? Which C4Lf member soundly snores through the experience despite their grumbling beforehand? And what is the unholy terror known only as the Meep! Which visits the unlockable Camping Barn in the middle of night? Find out in the next instalment of C4LFs: Gritstone Tale. MEEP!

Gritstone Trail part 3 (Bosley Cloud to Croker Hill)

Gritstone Trail part 3

(Bosley Cloud to Croker Hill)

Day 1, 7 April 2012

Bosley Cloud

Our ascent up to the Cloud is immediately interrupted by the arrival of two walkers. One an elderly well-spoken chap and the other his manservant/sherpa who answers to the name of Denali. Denali is dressed in some kind of crazy weighted garb that resembles, I imagine, Walka’s cyber suit. They’ve just got lost but apparently Denali is in training to climbing the highest mountain in North America, Mount McKinley and so is training up by climbing the Cloud. Given McKinley is 6194 metres high and the Cloud is 343 metres, you might not think this is the best preparation but apparently his cyber suit makes things more difficult.

We head in the opposite direction, retrospectively a foolish idea as they said they were climbing the Cloud, why did we do this? And after passing an attractive stream and walking someway up a hill Ben declares that we’re going in the wrong direction. Cue much looking at the map and trying to get GPS on Smit’s phone, I have a sandwich before we troop back down the road. You’d think our second peak of the walk wouldn’t be that hard to find. As we walk down the road we pass the village library, which is located in a phone box, and I pop in to write a quick message from C4Lf in the visitor’s book. We then are back following the footsteps of Denali and his keeper. Despite Ben’s best efforts to take us up some steps through someone’s Garden we find the actual route and power-up the vertical incline through Gosberry wood. The rhododendrons and soil erosion reminds me of little Switzerland in good old West Cheshire (not mid as Hardman would have you believe). We continue up through a straight track up some woods filled with unripened bilberries and out onto the thick heather-clad plateau at the top of the Cloud. It seems slightly incomprehensible to be seeing something that could pass as a moor in Cheshire but here it is. This looks like Yorkshire.

We head up to the trig point and settle down for some food. I search around for my cider but it looks like I’ve left it behind in Andrea’s car…idiot. It’s fairly windy up here, ravens soar around the rock face, and we have a good view across the Cheshire plain and can make out Beeston Castle, Liverpool Cathedral and High Billinge (although Hardman is a bit sceptical about this last one). There’s a couple of legends about the Cloud, one is that a giant standing with one foot on the cloud and one foot on Shuttlingsloe (Hardman – ‘Slutmingeho’) was scared by a small animal (which small animal is not specified but probably some kind of mouse [not a field mouse though because they don’t exist]) and dropped his boot on the mountain. No one can really see how the top of the Cloud looks like any type of footware. Maybe you need to get some distance. 

The other legend associated with Bosley Cloud is of a wee (for he is Scotch) drummer boy for it is he who travelled with Bonnie Prince Charlie down through Cheshire during the Jacobite rebellion of 1745. Alerted to his presence by his drumming an English sniper/tank commander gunned him down, ‘Nelly Jack John DEAD?!?’ The rocky outcrop where the drummer fell is now known as drummer’s knob. A musical interpreation of this story can be found here.

http://soundcloud.com/david-lloyd-mostyn/05-cheshire-phantasies-cloud

Finally, according to Macclesfield author, Doug Pickford’s ‘Earth Mysteries of the three shires’, the Cloud was a central site for the Cornovii or ‘people of the cat’ of Cheshire at the time of the Roman occupation of Britain in AD 43. They worshipped the cat god Catha and their religion was centred around the Cat Stone on the Cloud, a stone with the face of a grinning cat on it (although we didn’t see this).

It is said locally that sacrificial victims were thrown down this sheer rock face to be dashed to pieces on an altar somewhere below at the spring equinox (Easter time). Interestingly the information board still showed that local people up to the 1960s still made the long march, bonneted-up, from Timbersbrook on Good Friday. It’s Easter Saturday today however, and there’s no sacrificial bodies in sight. 

All of these factors contributed to the Cloud being named the top peak by Smit (‘top viewage and a somewhat pretentious name’) and Tone. While Ben grew all misty-eyed from ‘the views back across to good old west Cheshire, oh how I missed it while we were away’. We then began the descent down into Raven’s Clough (Hardman ‘Raven’s chuff’). This involved much slipping around on the muddy descent, this coupled with its ‘innocuous’ nature made it the shittest part of the walk for Smit. And it’s true the fear of an out of control Ben, limbs flailing wildly, tumbling down upon you was quite terrifying.

We walked along a deep rhododendron-filled chasm and then end up in a field which has been heavily scattered with manure. Once again the old Chester City folk song, ‘East Cheshire full of shit, shit and more shit, rings true.’ We’ve made such good time that we decide can afford to stop for a beverage and take the Staffordshire way to the village of Rushton Spencer. We pass the Rushton Inn but the sign has blown over and it basically just looks like someone’s house, so we carry on following the old railway track to the puntastically-named Knott Inn. 

Pub Review: The Knott Inn, Rushton Spencer

From the outside it looks great, a huge stone building that presumably formed part of the old station. However, when we get to the door we read the sign, ‘walkers, please leave muddy boots outside.’ We deshoe, enter and are excited by the prospect of a pint of Timothy Taylors. However, it’s off hmmm. The whole place is filled with yellow Easter Chintz, described by Tone as ‘terrifyingly bland’, with the lighthouse family being pumped in by loud speakers- what is this place? Suddenly I realise that the Knott outside is not only a hilarious pun but also the symbol of Staffordshire, we must have crossed over the border coming down off the Cloud. Smit is still mapping our progress on his iphone and is concerned that he’s running low in battery. 

He asks the Landlady if there are any plug sockets?’ 

She replies, ‘what do you want it for?’ As if Smit might be thinking of powering up his dildo in her family pub. 

Smit replies, ‘To charge up my phone.’

And she replies, ‘Well, there’s one over there but my lamp’s plugged into it.’

We spend the next, slightly awkward 15 minutes debating the ambiguity of her response. Smit is convinced that she’d given permission to unplug her lamp and charge his phone but is reluctant to do so until one of us confirm this is the case. Tone, Hardman and myself here are fairly certain that, despite the fact the room is full of lamps, the unplugging of a single one would bring the landlady’s wrath upon our heads. As a result we don’t stay for long to sample the intriguing pie of the day. As we do our boots up a local’s dog chained up outside, whines and barks at us. Eager for attention it still flinches at our touch.  We bid a hasty goodbye to what will be our worst pub on the walk. In Hardman’s words, ‘worst pub goes to Smit's charger-lamp dissing. I would've thought a rural pub would be appreciative of Conservative clientele.’ 

The Knott Inn scores

Decor	2.10
Atmos	1.30
Booze	2.60
Clientele	1.80
Barstaff	2.40
Total	2.04

Ben’s navigating abilities have been slightly off so far today, so it’s slightly worrying that we are now in Ben’s hands totally as we attempt to rejoin the Gritstone at the river Dane. Although initially we head into someone’s garden, as is Ben’s wont, Ben eventually guides us quite remarkably to the bridge over the river, just as he promised. Well done Ben all is forgiven.  We’re heading towards the final push up and over to Wincle  Minn (Hardman ‘Wincleminge’). We climb up the hill side through woodland and a strange swimming pool and eventually come out of the woods onto a windy hillside, populated by sheep and lonely farms. This is the first time that we actually encounter snow on the walk. 

We carry on along the ridge until it dips down towards the road. We can see the A54 down below us, which will lead us onwards to the camping barn. However, eager to bag as many peaks as possible and keen to get one more done today to make things easier for tomorrow, I suggest we try and bag  Croker Hill (‘Choke her (with my cock) Hill’ Hardman) today. Everyone is in good spirits and so agrees to go for it. We wander up through a field past a rambunctious ram that mock charges us along the wall. We get to the top of Croker, which is lacking a Trigg Point and slightly spoilt by its radio tower.

On the way back down a collie from the nearby farm runs down and follow us until we get to the road. Thankfully it doesn’t bark, ‘Ralph’s wood’ at us as that would mean we’d have to return to  the beginning of the trail. The dog wanders on alongside us for a while until I tell it in an authoritative voice to head back home, remarkably it does so. Although I nearly get run over by traffic in the process.

As we walk along the A54 it’s time for another pub break before we make it to the camping barn at Blaze Farm.  In the distance I spy the Wild Boar, I’m quite excited by the name choice as it’s presumably inspired by the killing of the last wild boar in England in nearby Wildboarclough (Hardman ‘Wild Brian Clough’s Chuff’). It’s also a Robinson’s pub so I hold out some hope that they might have Old Tom on tap.

Gritstone trail part two Mow Cop to Timbersbrook 7.04.2012

 Gritstone trail part two

7.04.2012

We begin the walk from Mow Cop walking along the Congleton Edge. From here we can see various hills in the distance that presumably we’ll be climbing today. One with snow on I reckon is the legendary Shuttlinsloe (Or ‘Slutmingeho’ if you’re Hardman), the Cheshire Matterhorn, where we’ll be camping at the base of tonight.

 Looking a little closer we can see Congleton aka beartown. Congleton got this nickname because at some point in the 1600s before the annual Wakes (holidays) Congleton’s bear died. With bear dancing one of the premier attractions of any period of fesitivities, what were the people of Congleton to do? Luckily they were able to raid the local Alderman’s fund for a new bible (their old bible, being tatty and rancid) to pay for a new bear. This gave rise to the popular rhyme, ‘Congleton rare, Congleton rare, sold their bible to buy a bear.’ The people of Congleton now deny this saying that from the money raised by buying a new dancing bear they were actually able to buy a bible – a sound investment then. But this claim is undermined by the fact that nowadays, if you give someone from Congleton a bible they’ll almost immediately try and sell it for a bear, sometimes even back to you if you have bear handy. They just can’t help themselves and should be pittied for their affliction.

Along Congleton Road we notice a road side verge with a large assortment of bouquets indicating this has been the sight of some kind of traffic-based tragedy. However, other people have also chosen this place to hurl a variety of tyres and other rubbish. Is this how they commemorate their dead in East Cheshire? Weird. We pass a couple of walkers and discuss the heady moment when we’re able to respond to their pleasant greetings of “good morning”, with a “it’s the fucking afternoon, you dick.” We descend down the side of the edge via the nick i’th’ wood by some fields and have our first pie stop of the trail. Tone and I have played pie roulette. Unfortunately, it turns out we’ve packed the veggie pie for day one and that the steak pie is sitting in the back of Andrea’s car probably being munched on by Fran’s Crewe troubador doppelganger as he plots our fate. Hardman has brought with him a hilariously homoerotic food, which I can’t quite recall. Some kind of faggot perhaps, or man cock. Smit has packed him some jerky, which we will later find has silica gel in it. The food of choice of any self-respecting Gritstone miner,  who wear their silicosis as a badge of honour.

We head across some fields to enjoy the lengthy canal-based monotony of the Biddulph Valley Way. Time is ticking along and we are wishing good morning to all and sundry. Conversation turns to the complicated interview techniques favoured by google. Which apparently focus on dropping two eggs from a 100 story building and working out which story the eggs will break at, while only breaking one of the eggs? There’s much consternation at what kind of eggs could possibly survive a fall from any floor of a tall building. Ostrich Eggs, whale shark eggs and fossilised dinosaur eggs are all suggested. Another logical puzzle is put forward, which involves you working out which of the switches turns on a light in a room you can only enter once. Again I don’t remember the exact answer but believe it involved sticking your penis in some kind of electrical socket. In the words of Smit, ‘FUCK YOU GOOGLE.’

We leave the river and head over some more fields and after a slight footpath diversion, caused by the seemingly inappropriate building of some houses on the gritstone trail,we arrive at Timbersbrook. According to the official Gritstone trail guide this is day three of the walk and we’ve done it by twelve. Pah and people on the C4Lf facebook page were dubious about us doing this in two days. We could probably do the route in one day (looking back now this would probably have been a bad idea, we would have missed out on the camping barn for one thing). I find myself an information panel and begin to take in the rich heritage of Timbersbrook. It was apparently once the home of the Silver Springs Bleaching and Dyeing Company, employing over 200 people and sentmillions of yard of black cloth to China. Every Good Friday the villagers would dress up in their bonnets and ascend up to the cloud.  After the war there didn’t seem to be the same need for dyed black cloth and the factory was finally demolished by the awesomely named Blaster Bates in 1966. 

Hardman interrupts my reading by saying good morning Fran, to which I reply, ‘Did you know Timbersbrook was the sigh of an old cloth dying mill?’ I’ve inadvertently spoilt his attempt to call me a dick for not realising it was the afternoon. I say ‘good morning’ back to him anyway but it’s not quite the same, and he gives me a half-hearted ‘it’s the afternoon you fucking cunt’ but he doesn’t really put any heart inot. I reluctantly leave the interpretation sign and begin the ascent to the Cloud, sadly sans bonnet.

Gritstone Trail – day 1, 7 April 2012

KIDSGROVE TO MOW COP

The Gritstone trail is the evil twin, the malign looking glass reflection of the better-known sandstone trail. While walking the sandstone trail the route tells a tale of a contented people grown rich off their salty abundance of their rolling plains; the Gritstone trail on the other hand reveals the lives of hardier folk.  A gnarled, weather beaten community who made their living gnawing the grit from the cliff face. They embraced the austerity of primitive methodism because they believed that regular methodism had gone soft. And cudgled Britain’s last wild boar to death because they needed to have sausages when hocktide came around.

Gritstone being formed in the Carboniferous period (354–290 million years ago) rather than the later Triassic period (248–205 MYA), like that n00b sandstone is harder than its ruddy cousin. It is appropriate then that on the Cheshire hiking fan forum, even if they are roughly the same length, the Gritstone trail is viewed as significantly harder than the sandstone. And the official Gritstone website recommends it be done in three days from North to South.

However, C4Lf being the contrary lot that they are decided to attempt it in two days from South to North. South to North has the following advantages.

1. If you’re staying at the Underbank Camping Barn (more on that later), near Wildboarclough, it’s about 22 miles on the first day and then 19 miles on the second day.
2. Rather than the banality of a lengthy canal walk finish, you have the climb up the mighty hump of the Spond to look forward to – the highest point on the Gritstone and then the descent back into the glaring light of the real world at Lyme Park.

The day starts out at Crewe Station to catch the 7.38 to Kidsgrove. My dad has given Antonia and me a lift to the station, while Andrea – in her role as Gritstone support team – is giving Hardman, Ben and Smitdawg a lift from the Forresters carpark. Remarkably, despite a boozy Old Dog fueled night with Ste, Weave and Bobby D at the Thouse on Friday where much ‘diving for oysters’ took place (it’s the latest trend in 2012 apparently), we make it to Crewe on time to buy tickets.

 But what’s this I see, when I turn around from the ticket machine. Andrea’s car has drawn up and parked in the taxi rank at the station but there seems to be a stranger with them, a mysterious fifth man, an odd bearded figure with bloody scabs on his knuckles. Could it be that Adam Dickinson character who ticked ‘maybe’ on the facebook page? Is it Andrea’s brother back from Dubai? No it turns out to be some guy from Crewe who locked himself out of his flat at 7.00 Am this mroning. He’s quite keen on joining us on the hike though, showing us a small book of thoughts, musings and pub ratings. It’s the Fran of Crewe, my scab-knuckled doppleganger. He asks me to take a look at his lyrics and I’m suspicious that he’s aware that I’d be interested in this sort of thing, what has he heard?  I hastily note some down for posterity, ‘Looking for a woman, from Timbuktu to Crewe.’ I’m tempted to to spice things up by telling him he can come along with us. However, there’s something not quite right about that strange glint in his eyes and I mutter about the B&B being booked and that we need to run to catch the train. With that we head into the station, turning only to glance back to see Andrea pulling away from the curb, a dark siloheutte hunched on her back seat. She’s probably giving him a lift back to his house or something and off we go.

Kidsgrove to Mow Cop

Ahhhhh the joy of relentless canalside walking, the water is a strange orangy-brown colour, presumably iron from the mining from the hills around these parts . As we’re walking along the canal I tell C4Lf the tale of the Blackdog of Kidsgrove, that was owned by the Audley family and used to roam their grounds at night to guard against deer poachers. Then one day the poachers dug a pit and the dog fell in and was left to slowly starve to death. However, the dog would be seen or heard again over the years. Each time before a mining accident occurred. Or as Hardman chooses to hear, ‘a minor accident’. As we walk along the canal we notice that the benches are all made of stone. Then we encounter a local East Cheshirite and his black dog ‘Rrrraalllphs Wrrroood’, it barks at Smit, ‘Rrrrrrrallllpphs Wrrrroooodd.’

About 200 metres later, after passing a particularly stinky sewage works, Ben, C4Lf’s navigator in Chief, realises we’ve managed to miss the turning off the canal. So much for Ben’s claims that this was an easy walk that Wainwright would shit on, which required no map reading whatsoever. We turn back, despite Smit’s pleas to never walk back along a path we’ve walked along before and for us to take a footpath through Ralph’s Wood as the dog advise him. A minor accident indeed. He’s like a shark he is that Smit, he can’t go backwards. However, after invalidating the Sandstone trail of 2010 by missing the first footpath in Whitchurch I’m anxious not to invalidate this one as well and so we go backwards to the turning, passing the sewage works as we go, although Smit insists on moonwalking back so he’s at least facing the right way.

As we walk along the canal we notice continous signs for nearby pubs the red bull, the bleeding wolf, the rising sun. We’ve already encountered three pubs and we’ve done about two miles. The gritstone website’s claims there are no pubs on the trail. Fuck you Gritstone website with your primitive methodist propaganda. Various members of the party speculate about how good our final two miles would have been hitting all three pubs along the way, if only Fran had gone the official route of North to South. However, I’ve learnt my lessons from the Sandstone trail and no that South to North will always be a better route. We encounter a variety of dogs of varying colours but none bark at us. A good sign.

Eventually we turn off from the canal and begin the ascent up to Mow Cop, through the village of the same name. As we pass along the houses, we notice that someone has put up A4 laments saying ‘no dog fouling’, complete with a photograph of a steaming pile of dog feces. Surely, the aesthetic of your dog-poo free lane is slightly impinged by colour photographs of canine excrement on every lamp post. Someone however, in the highest form of wit, had decided to ignore the warnings and there was a large pile of dog muck on the pavement – if it was a dog! As Chester FC fans have repeatedly told me – ‘East Cheshire is full of shit, shit and more shit’. I’d previously thought it was mere joshing by those surly Wrexham-hating wags but I was beginning to wonder if there was actually a sweetcorn-shaped nugget of truth behind the myth.

Carefully watching where we trod, we carried on past the Primitive Methodist Church and up the amusingly puntasticly named ‘high street’ to the summit of Mow Cop, at 337 metres over 100 metres higher than Rawhead (227 m) the highest point on the Sandstone trail. Oddly Ben remembers this as his favourite peak of the journey because of the Old Man of Mow. At the time I distinctly remember him suggesting we miss the peak because it wasn’t precisely on the route. He’s a stickler for route following is that Ben and bagging peaks seemingly means nothing to him. Although he was literally getting his bearings as navigator in chief early on, on the first day and we take a somewhat meandering route to the top of Mow Cop.

Mow Cop is interesting for a number of reasons, firstly is the castle itself. Although looking like an ancient ruin, from the days of the mighty Cheshire king Richard II, the castle is in fact a folly (we encounter numerous follys along the trail and this whole walk could be called Fran’s folly, although perhaps more precisely the accomodation at Wildboarclough fits that name), created by Randle Wilbraham I of Rode Hall in Cheshire in 1754. However, in 1850 evil Staffordshire landowner, the appropriately named Ralph Sneyd claimed the castle was built on his land. So began a lengthy legal battle with the court rulling in favour of Wilbraham. Another victory for Cheshire over the Clayheads WHOOP WHOOP! From the top of the castle you can see both the fertile Cheshire plain to the West and the eyesore of the rolling valleys and pit towns of Staffordshire and Derbyshire to the East. We turn our heads west and survey the misty scenary. The dreek weather than Hardman has brought down with him from Edinburgh has cleared and the sky has returned to an optimistic light grey.

Mow Cop is also of interest from my point of view, as for much of my adolescant life I was of the opinion the tumulus on High Billinge (yes the hill behind my house Hardman, what of it?) was the highest point in Cheshire. This belief was largely fostered by my dad telling me this, but at least he didn’t tell me he’d ever seen or robot there or that it was full of knife mines. Then in a moment that was the equivalent of Gallileo informing the Catholic Church that the earth resolves around the sun, I was told by Roger Barnes (he of the Rose Farm Utkinton village shop car wash fame), that in fact Mow Cop was the highest point in Cheshire. SHIT major paradigm shift, my whole world came crashing down around me. What was this Mow Cop of which Roger Barnes spoke? Was Utkinton really not the centre of the Shireverse? Of course it turned out that Mow Cop wasn’t actually the highest point in Cheshire, which is of course the enigmatically named Shining Tor (559 metres).  Mow Cop isn’t even the highest point on the Gritstone trail, that’s the Spond at 410 metres. So IN YOUR FACE Roger Barnes and because you were wrong about Mow Cop being the highest point in Cheshire I still retain some hope that High Billinge is the true highest point. Although I refuse to check the ordinance survey map to confirm this.

Mow Cop is also of some significance to the Weaver family, as it’s the home of Primitive Methodism. It was here on the 31 May 1807 that Hugh Bourne and his loyal followers, organised a camp meeting and prayed for 14 hours straight. Every year to celebrate this momentous occasion El Presidente, Big Mamma Weave and Big Poppa Weave climb up to Mow Cop to eat Belly Pork, non-stop for fourteen hours. Further cementing the Weaver link it turns out that Bourne was a pupil of the Old man of the forest, James Crawfoot, leader of the Magic Methodists of Delamere Forest. According to the official history of the methodist church: ‘It was reported that Crawfoot s disciples talked much of " exercising faith in silence," and went into visions and trances and practiced exorcisms. Primitive methodism was named after Crawfoot’s statement, ‘if you have deviated from the old uses I have not. I still remain a primitive methodist.’

A local inn keeper and follower of Crawfoot, Zechariah Baddeley was supposedly feared by Delamere forest locals because he had magical, almost godlike powers. But his powers were nothing compared to Crawfoot, or so says Wikipedia. Could that inn have been the Thouse? Is Weaver the great great great grandson of Zechariah Baddeley? Only future research will tell?

After hanging around and taking some photos on Mow Cop. We head off – taking in the Old Man of Mow on the way. Although some people claim that the Old Man of Mow is the result of mining activity around an old stone cairn, I can safely say that the Old Man of Mow is basically one of those stone giants that featured in CBBC’s 1994 drama Earth Fast, starring Paul Nichols. ‘David, David, the stones, Nelly Jack John etc.’ In fact there’s also a famous boggart in the area, the Kidsgrove Boggart so I don’t understand why seminal BBC drama Earthfast wasn’t set here. Luckily Cheshire’s only author Alan Garner set Red Shift in Mow Cop so it’s dramatic potential has at least been exploited once. Passing the massive noble figure of the Old Man we head on, one peak down six to go.

‘Nelly Jack John wait where arthou going?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vd1vKZeTeJg