What a day or ups and downs, and few of them related to the
elevations of the countryside we have travelled through. Packing up camp this
morning was relatively routine, but the troubles began when we hit the road. We
had discussed our route through Buxton yesterday, given that the town centre is
currently an absolute mess of road works. All roads converge in the central
hollow of the town, problematic for anything bigger than a Smart car at any
time, without this added obstacle. So we decided to head through the edge of
town on the southern slopes, all the way through to Morrisons, then turn back
toward the town along the river, turning onto the A6 and travelling through to
Manchester’s outer ring road, before the last leg northward to Bury. Well that
was the plan anyway.
Tomtom was intent on turning us up through the hills on the A5004
that we took through to Lyme several days ago, and we were fooled until it was
almost too late. Managing to turn back, we found ourselves caught up in the
long delays of diverted traffic despite our good intentions. The Chauffeur was
not happy to say the least.
Once on the right road, Tomtom decided we would be better to
travel to our next camp via Glossop on the north west edge of the Peak
District, along a red road, one of those we try to avoid where possible when
towing. A battle of wills took place and words were exchanged all round. As the dust settled, we found ourselves again caught up in more
road works, this on the A6 beyond Disley, and we realised then that Tomtom had
known more than we did all the time; we should have taken heed.
And so we finally came down from the Peaks, and entered a mess of
roads that move heavy traffic from the A6 onto the M60. It was during this
stage we found ourselves running a red light, realising only after the event.
We were closely following a big truck and as we turned in its wake, traffic
from the other direction was suddenly upon us. The only explanation was that
the truck which was shielding the traffic lights from our view, had been slow
in moving off, and the lights had turned again even as we set off, or worse
still, before we did so. That little episode shook us both somewhat.
Once onto the wide and busy M60, matters became straight forward,
and we turned north onto the M66 then left the motorway system a few miles on,
following the direction through to our camp, passing through the town of Bury.
We arrived right on midday but not until we had had to back up for an exit-ing
rig, the driver of which exclaimed that she had never had to deal with inward
traffic on previous trips. I felt like suggesting that the 12 o’clock departure
time does not mean one should wait until the last moment to leave. Our
manoeuvring to accommodate this silly woman did not improve The Chauffeur’s
humour.
Setting up camp was not as uneventful as the reverse earlier in
the day; we discovered a leak in the hot water tank, and had problems with the
electrical connection. A trip to the office to receive instructions on the
intricacies of the connection box soon fixed the second problem, but the leak
was another matter. It seemed that the lime build up from the dodgy water supplies
we find ourselves subjected to, had blocked the pump. After discussing possible
repairs over lunch, Chris flushed the tank several times, and finally it seemed
to sort itself out.
This was after Chris hitting his head on the side of an overhead
cupboard I had been slow in closing. The last thing to frustrate my ever
suffering husband was the fact that the entrance gate to the camp requires the
scanning of a pass card on not one entry pad, but two. And the first of these
is on the passenger side, the second on the driver’s, which begs the question
of what kind of womble designed that!
We headed back into Bury, to get the lay of the land and to get some
answers from the Information Centre. Our Tomtom took us up a dead end street at
the rear of the Asda Superstore, populated by be-robed Muslims. After stopping
and asking assistance we found our way around to the correct entrance. We
parked and walked across to the Markets, most not open today but promising much
for later in the week, eventually finding the Information Centre at the
entrance to a museum. There was little to offer here about Manchester, and even
that about Bury was scant. We were disappointed, but better informed when we
arrived at the railway station. We left there with a handful of maps and
brochures explaining the public transport options, and headed back to camp to
sort out some sort of touring schedule for our week here.
Our camp is right in the middle of the country park, around the River
Irwell and the remains of two cotton mills; Higher Woodhill Mill and Burrs
Mill. Extensive development of the mill sites has left interesting
archaeological remains and water courses through the park, all of which we have
yet to discover for ourselves.
The forecasted rain has not arrived, the meat pie purchased at
Asda was delicious and the accompanying Chilean wine was very drinkable;
harmony is restored.
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