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.
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.
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