3 April 2015 - Lightwood Farm, Norton, Sheffield

It really was no surprise to hear the rain through the night, to lift the blinds to the same and see that our camping ground was even boggier than the night before; we had been warned by the very friendly scruffy chap who had been so helpful the night before. We were therefore very happy to find ourselves driving up the hill out of the camp without event and out on the road south toward our next destination.

As we had sat over our last lunch with Chris’s siblings before meeting with Herr Ben at the motorhome pickup, discussing probable and equally improbable places we might manage to visit on our very brief tour, John suggested that the A57 over Snake Pass between Glossop and Sheffield was particularly stunning. He had not allowed for fog, rain or anything but clear weather; nor had we. However last night during the altercation over our tour arrangements, I had reminded my dear husband of his older brother’s suggestion, and so we had brought out the maps and reconsidered our options. This is why our route today was a rather convoluted zigzag south down to the Peak District and across into the has-been steel industrial centres of the country.

Our route followed the A6160 down through the Dales, across lovely farmland, albeit rather waterlogged from the second dose of overnight rain. The tiny lambs here had no need of the little feed-bag coats we had seen on those around Borrowdale yesterday, but still appeared bedraggled although less than their mothers who still had their long woollen coats on. We passed over many high passes today, the first a little north to Buckden, the peak of the same name rising to 702 metres. Here at the top, we rose into the dense fog, and this was to be repeated time and again during the day, a disappointment for the avid photographer and record keeper, namely myself.

Near Kilnsey, we passed a rather unusual geological formation, high cliffs standing high above the road and totally out of character from the surrounding countryside. Near here too we passed Kilnsey Park, full of patrons, all standing around a couple of ponds, artificially filled with fish for which these recreational fishermen had paid to dabble their rods, with a high likelihood of catching tomorrow’s dinner. Coming from a country where the wild is the wild, and the birds and fish are free, this did seem rather peculiar.

On south we came, now following the Wharfe River, through Wharfedale, a beautiful countryside, passing through lovely Burnsall, a place I would dearly have loved to stop and walk about, but there was nowhere to stop, as per usual.

We came upon a fascinating village, the ruins of Bolton Abbey and a few support buildings. I quickly looked this up in our guide and was delighted to find that entry was free. We eventually found the car park where we could park up and walk about the area, but the chauffeur was most unhappy to learn that the parking fee was 8 GBP (NZ$16). Now this could be considered reasonable if you were to spend a good part of the day there, but we were only intending to call for an hour or less, and thought it unreasonable; most likely a case of cutting off our nose to spite our face, a common fault of ours these days, and in fact right throughout our time travelling.

We continued on down through Addingham and Silsden now on the A6034, then Keighly and Haworth where one can find the Bronte Personage Museum, on the A6033, up across Wadsworth Moor which today seemed like the remote desolate moors of the Bronte novels; moss, red tussock and dead heather, although in their day, there were no bus stops along the way.

We arrived at Hebden Bridge with the intention of pulling in and lunching, but this quaint riverside village is jammed down tight streets and steep hills, today full of holidaymakers, many enjoying a medieval street play. Alas, there was no space in the car parks, nor on the side of the roads, so we left, fortunately finding a road not too much further on, wide enough to allow us to pull to one side.

After lunch we handed the navigational reins over to Mavis who guided us through the complex roundabouts and motorway network about Halifax and Huddersfield, then took over again at Holmfirth, a satellite village on the outskirts of the industrial towns we had been led through, now in the Holm Valley, then up through another mist covered pass on the Heyden Moor, this at 524 metres. We came down into Longdendale and followed the banks of the Torside Reservoir westward to Glossup, and then set out east across the Peak National Park on the A57, up and over Snake Pass at 512 metres ASL, down through the Hope Woodlands to the Ladybower Reservoir, a picturesque spot with no space for the casual photographer.

I asked Chris to pull into the next layby so that we could formalise a plan for our entry into Sheffield, but alas there was none. We soon found ourselves driving up into the city streets of Sheffield, still with no plan. I was speed reading the Rough Guide in search of a tourist attraction or National Trust place where we might hang about until it was time to arrive at our camp. I spotted mention of the Meadowhall shopping centre, located in an old steelworks and billed as one of Europe’s biggest malls, so we had Mavis take us through the centre of the city and across to the shopping mall, which turned out to be very near Rotherham.

Entering the parking area, we saw that the entire population of Sheffield and surrounds was avoiding the rain under cover, exercising their credit cards. Our expectations were almost non-existent, so we were very pleasantly surprised to find a space just right for our needs. We spent almost an hour walking about, or rather, avoiding the crowds of shoppers, folk of all ages, all better dressed than I who was, still wearing my tramping boots donned to deal with the muddy grounds of the early morning.

After finding the shopping centre like most large ones visited before, especially those in Melbourne accorded the same celebrity size status, we returned to the camper and found our way around the south side of the city to our camp, less than a mile from the busy city streets, on a farm of about 180 acres, once carrying dairy stock, now appearing to carry horses for equestrian entertainment and a few dry cattle intent on munching their way through great rolls of hay.

We arrived to find Mr Farmer farewelling an official gentleman at his door, perhaps his bank manager or the like, but otherwise alone and at a loss as to where his wife who deals with Caravan Club matters, still absent. The field normally offered for such activities is a mire, and he was not sure where she thought we should be directed. Soon she arrived with horse truck, having taken a couple of ponies and their recently laundered farm dogs to a rest home for the afternoon. It seemed the visit had been very successful, the staff reported that some of the inmates had smiled and shown a measure of pleasure not expressed in recent memory.  Kay soon had us organised, directing us into her equestrian arena onto the mushy sand. Alas their power was off;  a transformer had blown yesterday and the replacement generator had failed. Mr Farmer took our 10 GBP and promised a refund if the power did not come back on this evening. I am pleased to report that we do now have power, hence I am able to write the day’s events up.

And to consider the merits of Snake Pass? It was a lovely drive, and would have been even better had the weather been less hideous, but we have crossed other passes and climbed other heights over the past week or so, and we would suggest there are other lovelier spots than Snake Pass. But I shall say it was far better to have taken this route today than be lingering in York with no accommodation, and we are all much happier tonight than last.