Old maps offer a glimpse of another world. Not of how things “used to be” but a snapshot of a person’s reality, which did and did not exist. They offer a glimpse of the common fears, aspirations and goals of people from a certain era, laid out in detail on parchment and illustrations. Place names and illustrations hold stories and histories in their curlicued lettering and vibrant shades.

We scoff at the sea monsters and dangers that crowd the map’s frayed edges, but in some ways those offer a more truthful depiction of how people saw the world than the borders and kingdoms that fill maps.

Recently, I partook in what some might say is a foolhardy exercise. I tried retracing a 17th-century traveller’s journey around the Peak District using Ogilby Maps from the 1600s.

In an age when people relied on word-of-mouth and sporadic waycrosses that largely delineated the nearest places of worship (because why else would you be travelling?), the Ogilby maps were revolutionary for their time. They standardised distances and featured crucial navigational details - intersections, river crossings and important landmarks - that stymied travellers in the past. The pieces for Enlightenment were falling into place across the UK and with it a growing demand for widespread commercialisation, industry, and curiosity about the rest of the country.

The 17th-century travel writer Celia Fiennes believed journeys like these were a remedy for laziness and provincialism; seeing your own country first-hand did more for the nation's glory than any amount of talk.

Ogilby’s maps capture the electric fervour coursing through society at this time. The world was changing, status quos were being challenged. After centuries of invasions and civil war, England was finally getting its shit together and emerging as a contender on the world stage. Ogilby’s maps offered people a chance to see these changes for themselves. They offered me the chance to see the world through their eyes. Or so I thought.

Very little of Ogilby’s maps cover the Peak District National Park, I discovered to my chagrin. As they were designed as “strip maps”, only the main routes and small offshoots from these are mentioned on the maps. The Peak District hardly gets a look in, with a brief mention on the trunk route between Derby and Manchester. Nearby Rotherham is squeezed into the bottom corner between beautiful sketches of hills and compasses of equal size.

What are the real-world consequences when a region and its people are omitted from the “standard” people rely on? Do they even exist?

If the maps can’t tell us, travel writers and history can fill in the blanks. Celia Fiennes travelled through the Peaks in 1697, decrying that the wealth of minerals locked away in its hills compensated for the awful undulating terrain she had to experience:

“All Derbyshire is full of Steep hills and nothing but the peakes of hills as thick one by another is seen in most of y^e County w^ch are very steepe, w^ch makes travelling tedious and y^e miles Long…but tho’ the Surface of y^e Earth Looks barren yet those hills are impregnated w^th Rich marble stone metals, Iron and Copper and Coale mines in their bowells, from whence we may see the wisdom and benignitye of o^er greate Creator to make up the Defficiency of a place by an Equivolent, and also the diversity of the Creation w^ch Encreaseth its Beauty.”

If only she had a map to warn her about the edges and hills.

Daniel Defoe travelled through the Peaks in 1720, and from his journals it sounds like a good time was not had. He described High Peak as the most desolate, wild and abandoned country in all England, and the people of the region as "rude, boorish, but bold" on account of their mining capability. Out of the Seven Wonders of the Peaks, only two met his lofty standards.

As both reference, the Peak District’s hills were bursting with coal, lead, and a plethora of other minerals, all vitally needed as fuel for England’s emerging industries in smelting, brick-making and glass blowing at the time. Here is an area rich in resources and wonders. According to the reality of Ogilby though, it didn’t exist.

As I cycle through the coal pits and mining sites that nature has since reclaimed on the edges of the Peak, I wonder: while some can argue the Peak District was a prisoner of its geography, could a mention on a popular map have generated a quicker change in fortune, especially as people visited the area? How much does our ignorance of an area inform our opinion of it?

If Ogilby's omission was passive - after all, he had the limitations of the strip-map format, the Peaks simply strayed out of his margins - can we say today’s maps don’t also fall foul of shaping our view of the geography around us to a more purposeful intent?

Besides the wider geo-political battles waging out on our maps (i.e. disputed regions disappearing depending on the map printer) changes to maps infiltrate more insidious elements of our everyday lives.

People have accused Google Maps, in scattered but persistent reports online, of rerouting people away from affluent neighbourhoods with high walls and surveilled gates. Public routes being excluded in the name of “private access” geography.

And then there’s what I'll call, from my experience as a Digital Content Editor, the “best places” problem. People are short on time and money, they want to know the “best” places to go. As a Digital Content Editor, I can whole-heartedly tell you that these can be manipulated. As “hyper-personalisation” becomes more closely embedded into our digital experience, how much of what we see on map software is the reality on the ground, or just what a series of algorithms think we want to see?

Beyond the realms of Google, other disputes are playing out on OS Maps. By democratising entering issues with maps across all users, everyone’s perspectives of dangers or warnings are promoted. Numerous jokes, discussions and rants abound on social media of people discovering a “fallen tree” or “closed path” have been perfectly fine. What’s one man’s danger is another’s adventure - or it doesn’t even appear on their radar.

There’s a great poem by Wisława Szymborska called “Map” that ends with this closing banger:

I like maps, because they lie.
Because they give no access to the vicious truth.
Because great-heartedly, good-naturedly
they spread before me a world
not of this world.

Maps have the power to take us anywhere, including places we’d prefer were out of sight, out of mind. They have the power to inform us of the state of the world around us, but also the capability to reassure us the world is how we’d prefer to see it. Whether the maps are old or new, they have the ability to challenge our view of the world, to send us off on an adventure - but are we willing to change, or be changed, by them?

‘What’s that?’

An innocuous metal cage squatted beside our feet. A shrub’s branches brushed the steel web, as if trying to claim the delicate creamy petals inside for itself. If we hadn’t stopped for a drink, I would have walked past it, oblivious.

‘...apparently it’s a white helleborine. Huh.’

Rare to Scotland, the orchid takes approximately ten years to develop and flower. Even then, the bell-shaped blooms never fully open. As it turns out, that wild orchid set the tone for a landscape that doesn’t give up its secrets easily.

Thrones and Outposts of the Seas

Looming off the remote north-western coast of the Isle of Mull, the Treshnish Peninsula is a storm-weathered jumble of basalt terraces and grassy slopes. Harsh black lines of jagged cliffs line its shores. There’s a beauty in the desolation, but look closely at an Ordnance Survey map and you'll find the area's bloody strategic past revealed in a hushed cadence every kilometre: Dun. Fort. Dun.

Standing on one such Dun, the Atlantic stretches out to meet the sun ray’s on the horizon. Several islands and skerries loom close, their shadows turning swatches of the sea a bruised black. Squinting through the wind, I spot the faint, jumbled outline of ruins clinging to the largest isles, their roofs long ago torn away by gales.

People have flocked to the Treshnish Peninsula’s waters since the Iron Age. We look at those islands and see bird refuges, but the Vikings saw vital, heavily fortified waymarkers for their longships. Even the name Treshnish is Old Norse, roughly translating to “headland by the wooded valley” or “Thor’s headland.”

In those days, owning an outpost on the sea routes could be life-changing. Building an impenetrable stronghold on one of these islands sent a message to rivals and clans that was as much psychological as it was strategic: If we can thrive here, we can take you on anywhere.

Its strategic value peaked during the Jacobite Uprisings of the 18th century. These cliffs and forts controlled the vital sea routes around Mull, and Jacobite fighters from the Maclean clan transformed the Treshnish Isles into a rebellious stronghold. When the uprising was finally crushed, the British government established a permanent garrison here, desperately trying to stomp out the embers of future rebellion.

As we walk further along the peninsula’s edge, the ancient clang of metal and echoes of war cries recede to the bleats of sheep, the soft coos of puffins, and the occasional spurt of a whale’s blowhole.

Survival here wasn’t reserved for the high seas or lofty cliffs. While warriors and Scottish nobility staked their claims across the land, for the average crofter and fisherman, existence on Treshnish was a daily, hard-won battle against the elements. The climate was brutal. The thin soil required a backbreaking cycle of gathering seaweed just to supplement enough nutrients alongside the earth to fertilise a crop. Winters could freeze the ground solid.

And then there was the English Crown to contend with.

For the everyday folk, there was one saving grace in this land. But the history that mattered to their later survival wasn’t built on top of the cliffs. It was hollowed out beneath them.

Whisky Business

In diminutive gothic font, the phrase “Whisky Cave” belies one of Treshnish’s greatest acts of collective resistance against the British Crown.

Caves liberally pocket the coastline of Mull, carved over millennia by the relentless pounding of salt water against friable basalt. It’s that exact rock I find myself delicately tiptoeing along as I make my way down toward the shore along a short, exposed ledge. I crimp my fingertips deeper into the cold stone cracks, leaving angry red indents on my pads.

Pebbles shift and tinkle as I leap the last few feet. A wild tangle of old fishing gear, knotted seaweed and Atlantic flotsam claw at my boots as I try to navigate the detritus of litter across the shore. A pair of distinctive orange boots sat upright, almost as if someone had put them there. Behind that, John and Tryfan came bounding down a steep bank.

Ah well. At least I got some climbing in.

Even when you’re standing on the beach, the cave is masterfully hidden. A diminutive mound of earth blocked its mouth, serving two ingenious tactical functions: it completely disguised the interior from passing ships, and it ensured that any escaping steam from the distilling process would be easily mistaken for ordinary sea mist.

I tiptoe toward the stone foundations hidden behind the mound. Rugged, moss-strewn stones form a rough platform, a depression in the centre hinting at its clandestine past life. Nearby, a hollowed-out tree trunk sits in the dark, eerily resembling a pipe.

‘Is this where they did it?’ John asks.

I nod slowly, but shrug. ‘Perhaps, but we can’t guarantee it without more evidence.’ Tryfan bounds past us into the darkness, plunging his nose straight into mystery pools of dark liquid.

To the uninitiated, the cave resembles a damp hollow. Look closer, and the stone foundations could support a heavy pot still, and the trickling noise at the back is a reliable freshwater source. Disguised from land and sea, with fresh water on tap and immediate access to routes on land and sea, this cave was the ideal spot to rebel against the Crown.

For crofters across the isles and highlands, whisky production wasn’t a mere hobby: it was an economic necessity. Not only did the persistent damp and chilly weather make farming miserable, it could rot their barley before it could be sold or consumed. Converting that excess barley into whisky gave them an alternative income, a spirit to warm the blood on frigid wintry nights, and a vital base to mix with local herbs for medicine.

The English government saw it differently. Desperately needing funds to bankroll their wars, the idea that islanders were brewing tax-free spirits (and keeping that wealth for themselves instead of funding the King’s armies) incensed them. Farm distilling was summarily outlawed.

Distilling during this period required ingenuity to avoid the excise officers. Crofters across Scotland engineered highly portable, ingenious stills that could be dismantled, packaged and hidden in a heartbeat. Because the only written records of these sites are the ones left by the redcoats who managed to bust them, illegal distilling sites are still being uncovered to this day.

Robert Burns famously stated: “freedom and whisky gang thegither”. Nowhere is this more evident than on Treshnish.

This still, operating in total secrecy while the nearby communities of Crackaig and Glac Grugairidh kept the fires burning, is a rare survival. It stands as a monument to the grit of ordinary people using the jagged geology of their home to carve out an existence on their own terms.

Yet as we hiked up from the shore and into the overgrown ruins above, we discovered exactly where that rebellious spirit hit its tragic limit.

Ghosts in the Landscape

Perched on the cleft of a hill overlooking the sea, Crackaig’s huddled foundations have withstood the Atlantic winds for centuries. Fifteen buildings in total, including a small schoolhouse, all hewn from thick, local stone. They are the ungainly remains of a once-lively township. Today, sheep are the only inhabitants.

Little history is recorded or definitively known about Crackaig and Glac Grugairidh but what’s been passed down and recorded in archaeological history is heartbreaking. A lethal combination of typhoid and the Highland Clearances hammered the twin townships. One house, perched far away from the others, allegedly acted as an isolation house for those struck down with the illness. By the time an OS Map was done of the area in the 1870s, only the schoolhouse and three buildings in Crackaig still retained their roofs.

For centuries, generations of people called Treshnish home. Yet people are what make a place a home, and with so few left and fewer good options available to the crofters, many decided to make the perilous journey to America.

I stop before a carving etched into the outside of one of the longhouses. A ship, its sails unfurled and caught in a strong gust, glides across the stone. Local legend says one of the last inhabitants of Crackaig made the carving, a final goodbye to their home before they set off for the New World. What would they say if they could see the condition of Crackaig and Glac Grugairidh today?

If Crackaig is in a melancholy state, then nearby Glac Grugairidh is a tragic ruin. After the families left, their homes were repurposed into pens to hold livestock. Today many of the walls have collapsed. Mounds of moss and lichens the size of my torso have gradually claimed the stones, places where families once slept and laughed together.

The Power of Symbols

Some may see the abandoned settlements of Crackaig and Glac Grugairidh as a symbol of conquest, a story of a people broken and scattered, and then lost to time. It is easy to look at the cold, silent ruins of the whisky cave and assume that even the most stubborn resistance eventually fades into nature.

But if Treshnish and its landscape can teach us anything, it’s nature’s ability to preserve our stories, long after we’ve gone.

This landscape reminds us that like the helleborine, resistance can be small, quiet, and clever. It’s knowing how to use those intrinsic elements of your home that you’ve grown up with (in Treshnish’s case, the basalt cliffs, the hidden freshwater burns, and the rising sea mist) to shield your community from the ledger books of an empire.

The roofs may have blown away, the walls may be buried in moss, and the people may have been driven across the ocean, but the landscape refuses to forget. In the deep, briny corners of Treshnish, the spirit of their defiance remains intact.

A user called stubob on the Modern Antiquarian described the approach as a “pant-filling experience”. He had also said he was a dolphin trainer for the Ministry of Defence, so I brushed his surmise aside with a heavy fist of salt.

Staring down the approach to Thor’s Fissure Cave, I had to admit ol’ stubob had a point. Damnit. The path, about 8 inches in width, nosedived down the face towards Thor’s Cave, before turning and disappearing entirely from view. Myself and Anna, armed with trekking poles and helmets, gingerly toed our way down the side.

Between 1927 and 1935, a volunteer crew with the hokiest name imaginable, the Brotherhood of the Pick and Shovel, excavated Thor’s Fissure Cave under the leadership of Reverend GH Wilson. Despite the name, they struck archaeological gold: Neolithic axes, amber beads, Roman brooches, and even a dolphin vertebra. Finding just one of these would define an archaeologist’s career; finding them all suggests that perhaps God does have favourites.

Most of the artifacts are now on display at Buxton Museum, and are well worth a look. Finding a copy of the survey by Wilson and his “brotherhood” has been next to impossible, but what has been conspicuously absent from any mention alongside Thor’s Fissure Cave is rock art. My friend Anna Clark has been working closely with Dr George Nash to survey and document rock art throughout the Peak District. Their recent work at Rowtor Rocks is an intriguing read and evidence that the Peaks still holds an incredible amount of history waiting to be surveyed and studied.

We know the caves in the Manifold Valley have a rich history of human habitation and even veneration; some have a proliferation of markings that testify to their importance for early humans. Could Thor’s Fissure Cave be among those exalted spaces?

Spurned by a kaleidoscopic vision of crawling through chambers covered in rock art above us, layers of Roman beads, pottery shards, and prehistoric tools digging into our hands and knees, we dragged ourselves down the hillside. It was needed, because our approach encountered a more modern archaeological phenomenon: a hefty stratigraphy of garbage.

‘Who the fuck throws this amount of beer cans down here?!’

‘How old is this chocolate wrapper from? Do they even make this bar anymore?!’

‘Why does no one think of ritualistic archaeology in the natural landscape?!’

Eventually Thor’s Fissure Cave winked at us, its eye lined with lashes of stinging nettles and lichens. The Manifold Valley stretched beneath us, other caves watching us from a distance. We hastily switched on our headtorches, checked for any critters, and clambered in, torchlight zigzagging across the rocks.

The colours of Thor’s Fissure Cave were a palette of deep ochres, calming terracotta, and the purest white of fresh settled snowfall in an early morning, before footsteps mar it grey. My mind flitted back to sunset at the Sedona buttes in Arizona. For a moment, the grit of the Manifold Valley vanished, replaced by the warmth of the state’s deserts, until the excitable yelps of kids exploring nearby Thor’s Cave pulled me back.

A thin veneer of lichen had grown over the roof of the entrance chamber. It resembled coral, bringing the cave’s former life back to the present. Stems of crinoid fossils stood, as if frozen in surprise at our entrance.

The ceiling did its best to distract us, but the most recent contribution towards the archaeology of this cave’s floor was hard to ignore. Broken tent poles mingled with burnt sticks of wood. Food wrappers and beer bottles were squirreled away in crevices and corners. Where the charcoal sticks sat, the roof was coated in black soot.

Audible sighs escaped us. ‘Paintings tend to be towards the back of caves,’ Anna reminded me. There was hope yet.

Sliding down a slick, steep decline, I scrambled on my hands and knees and pushed as far as I could to the final chamber. No more than a foot high, water pooled around the surface. The loose scree dug into my chest as I twisted my arm through the final small, lonely chamber at the back. Behind me, Anna switched between testing the reverberation of the cave and taking photos.

‘Ooooh, what about this?’ we snapped some pictures of blackened smudges and tested them through the Decorrelation Stretch software. The name DAN gradually leered through the splashes of purple, limes and reds.

‘Maybe there was a prehistoric man called Dan?’ Anna sighed while I snorted. ‘You never know, there might be something underneath this graffiti,’ She continued snapping away for further testing, while I went scouting for anything dark red, black or purple.

Thor’s Fissure Cave is an example of a wider issue across the national park. These spaces that hold ancient paintings and carvings are increasingly at risk with people tagging the rock with spray paint or carving their names.

Some people may question: what’s the difference? The answer lies in the intent and knowledge we gain from the past. Ancient rock art is part of a wider ritualistic and cultural purpose and veneration of the natural space. People carving their initials or spray painting onto spaces already holding sensitive monuments make it harder for researchers to gain a better understanding from the limited clues we have of the past.

Modern graffiti blankets ancient veneration with pure ego - a frantic shout against impermanence in a landscape that has seen humans pass through for millennia. Where the ancient painted creatures celebrate the space, the spray-can seeks to claim it.

Thor’s Fissure Cave is unique in its location and history. The approach alone would deter many people from exploring this cave, its narrow squeezes and spider-filled chambers dissuading the more squeamish.

When a site is difficult to access but still ends up full of trash, what does that say about the ‘modern adventurer’? There’s a debate in archaeology and the outdoors that not signposting fragile or unique sites can help preserve them. However, when people have the tools but not the knowledge of the significance of what they’re exploring, does it just hide the damage temporarily?

The answer lies in a fundamental shift in how we perceive our place in the wider timeline of humanity. Access to any space comes with a responsibility to understand how to move and exist in that area. If outdoor education were as foundational as literacy, perhaps ‘Dan’ would have seen the painted roof and wildlife there as elements to appreciate and leave unscathed, rather than a blank wall.

Thor’s Fissure Cave has survived the Neolithic, the Iron Age, and the Brotherhood’s shovels. Whether it survives the ‘modern adventurer’ depends entirely on whether we can learn to value a space for what it is and what it’s seen, over a landscape we consume and abandon.

The potential rock paintings and carvings are being sent for further analysis. When more details come to light from Anna and George, I’ll share their findings!

It begins with a claustrophobic drop. Spiders scuttle at the edge of my headlamp’s beam, and I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t opt for full power.

Something hard and clammy grazes my lower back where the shaft shrinks and pitches forward. The rope jams in my descender; I have to give a sharp, weighted bounce to force a descent. When the ground finally welcomes me, I unclip and yell ‘Rope free!’ into the dark. Above, the rest of the Peaky Cavers begin their clamorous descent.

It’s a Monday night in Stoney Middleton. While the rest of Derbyshire lies tucked under a quilt of fog, we are wandering the subterranean labyrinth of Carlswark Cavern.

Commonly billed as a “beginner’s trip” due to its straightforward SRT, Carlswark’s reputation belies its complexity. It is a sprawling hive of mine tunnels and natural chambers, one of the largest in the area. Alongside the cave’s impressive stalactites, Dr Thomas Short notes the network stretched all the way to Foolow village, 2 miles away, in his 1734 book History of the Mineral Waters. The tunnel he mentions has never been found, despite extensive exploration over decades. Despite centuries of hobnailed boots, rubber wellies and LED torches, the map remains unfinished.

This is the Information Age paradox. We assume that because we have Google Maps, the world is done. In reality, things are lost to time or have never been found. We assume exploration now requires a private jet to the Antarctic or a six-figure sponsorship to break a speed record, all while being oblivious to the potential discoveries near us.

But that’s not what’s on my mind. Inches above my head, thousands of fossilised brachiopods are held fast by the clay. Millions of years ago, Carlswark was an ancient seabed. Beneath the dank puddles and hues of ochre, it’s hard to imagine fish and Jurassic predators swimming past me. Part of the privilege of caving is seeing, up close, how landscapes can change so completely. Unlike the brachiopods, though, we can continue on.

Little by little, the chamber widens until we can hunch forward from our waists. My knees are grateful for a break.

Piles of dirt lay scattered every few meters along the side of the chamber. 'Either some industrious team of moles are here, or one of those prehistoric giant moles lives on in Carlswark,’ someone jokes.

Ed, our trip leader, ducks into one. ‘They’re making great progress,’ he nodded, before turning back towards us.

‘There are several exploratory digs happening in Carlswark at the moment. Behind all this clay may lie a new chamber, or a connection to another part of the cave network. The only way to know for sure, though, is digging through the clay. There are some really cool updates coming through - check out the local caving chats if you wanna see.’

Local cavers, fueled by nothing but curiosity and a pint at the Moon Inn afterwards, are painstakingly clawing through clay. They aren't looking for a first ascent or a TikTok milestone. They’re searching for uncharted passageways, potentially new cave systems, or even satisfying that nagging suspicion that two passages link somehow.

We crawl toward Stalactite Passage, where amber curtains reveal spindly candlesticks dancing across the ceiling.

I leaned closer. Several stalagmites ‘n’ tites are abruptly sliced at a perfectly straight line, like slicing through a bacon rind.

‘What’s gone on here?’ I turned to Ed.

‘Ah, this used to be a show cave back in the day. Victorians would lob off formations here as souvenirs. Someone once told me quite a few ended up as decorative bits for lamps.’ Ed bent closer and peered at another hewn curtain beside me.

One chamber is filled with ancient mollusc beds, another formation that took millions of years to form - what will the next chamber hold?

Water. Dear reader, lots of water. After scrambling over boulders, the chamber rises to village church heights but narrows to a needle’s eye. We wade in until the murky brown water sloshes against our chests, a liquid chocolate pudding that hides the floor. For a ‘beginner’s cave’, it feels remarkably like we’ve hit the edge of the Earth’s core. We retreat, choosing the dry delights of Eyam Passage instead.

We often equate exploration with distance. We think we have to travel far to find something untouched. But Carlswark is 70 million years old, and despite the gaggles of miners and Victorians, there are still pockets of it that have never felt the exclamation of human breath.

For many, there’s an assumption that being an “explorer” requires big budgets, support teams, and loads of hype. That you have to push your body to physical extremes, chase records, or even head to the limits of human existence to be called an explorer.

The Cambridge Dictionary defines “explorer” as someone who travels to places no one has ever been to find out what is there. Carlswark holds that definition to heart, showcasing how anyone can be an explorer.

You don’t need to be an ultramarathoner or a sponsored nomad to find blank sections on the map. They are under our feet, in the unclassified lichens of our local woods, and in the forgotten archives of our village histories.

Carlswark was once a coral reef, but today it’s a Monday night playground that still holds surprises. Here, being a “beginner” isn’t a hurdle. Exploration isn’t always about how fast you can cross a continent. As unglamorous as it sounds, it can be about how deeply you can look at the patch of dirt right in front of you. It won’t give you social media clout, but your local outdoor groups and environmentalists will appreciate your efforts.

It’s late as we navigate the final crawl through Eyam Passage. The allure of fresh air permeates the chamber, but there’s one final section to navigate: Gin Entrance. Carlswark saves its most iconic feature for last (or first, depending on your trip planning).

I climb the roughly hewn levels. Each step brings a biting cold that promises above ground is tantalisingly close. Gnarled knots of wood intertwine with the rock, before stone is forgotten altogether, and I’m climbing through a dense weave of roots. Some are smooth, decades of oily hands and boots sanding the grooves into neat handles.

How many others will emerge from these roots with a renewed drive to discover Carlswark’s hidden depths? Perhaps one of those will find the passage to Foolow. If you do, let me know.

Place names perhaps offer the most immersive way to read a landscape. You can spend hours scouring contours to find the funniest places (Beans and Bacon mine, I’m looking at you), the bizarre, the beautiful. Place names have the power to ignite the imagination amongst the mealiest patch of land.

They can also reveal a wealth of information behind a landscape’s terrain and history before you set a foot on the ground. Explore any map for Scotland, and myriad names appear around the top of peaks that discern their shape and terrain. Sgùrr denotes a jagged peak, while stob will find you standing on a small top. They’re a delight for the eyes to discover, and for your mouth to mull over.

Moving from south to north, place names can denote past ancestors and hint at the history of the landscape. The term “stream” in southern England gradually turns to “brook” in the Midlands and then “beck” in the North. The Viking influence endures centuries later.

It was with this in mind I planned a hike to an intriguing summit called Mt Famine in the Peaks. To say the terrain was boggy is an understatement; every step was an adventure. Mist and sunshine wrestled on the ground, with bursts of swirling clouds and eye-searing rays turning the spongy earth into a meteorological battleground.

Sunshine gradually gained the edge and banished mist to the horizon, just as we reached the summit of South Head. Wind flattened wisps of hair against my face, eager to escape the confines of my hood. Eyes closed, I faced the sun and inhaled deeply. Damp, Arctic wind sent shivers to the bottom of my lungs. Revitalized, I turned northwest, tracing a jagged line that tore through the earth parallel to the smirk-inducing Dimpus Clough.

A mad, exhilarating dash down South Head’s face deposited us among dense clumps of rushes and sedges. Rounded stones poked out of the trail, as if we were walking along a meandering line of tombstones. Miniscule avalanches of soil collapsed underfoot.

The whole peak had the disconcerting sensation of collapsing, even though it has stood firm for a millennia. Perhaps it was the proximity to the crag face. Three feet to the right would see you tumbling off towards Dimpus’s bracing waves. It was more likely Tryfan’s daredevil attitude, darting along the edge of the ridge face before returning to safe ground at the last second.

I focused on slow, deliberate steps, until, finally, we stood on the top of Mt Famine. The sun cast our shadows long and slender against the hillside, making us look as big as we felt on that summit.

The view from the summit was opposite to underfoot. Verdant farm fields surrounded us, basking in the sun’s warmth and illuminating the golden tips of grass. The view stood in defiance of all the grey, boot-sucking quicksand we’d endured to that point. It was a view that encapsulated the nostalgia of ”pastoral England”.

Back home, under the comfort of a snoring retriever and blanket, I delved into the origins of Mt Famine’s name. Few sources are available, but what I did find unsettled me.

Following the Enclosure Acts that started in the 1750s, tenant farmers leased Mt Famine for farming. Unfortunately, the soil quality was so poor that they frequently went hungry. So renowned was their plight in the community, it was immortalised in the hill’s place name.

It would be easy to shrug the discovery as a one-off. As Hill Explorer found, several place names bore macabre stories of our ancestors’ ill fates. Starvation Hill, Never Gains, Famish Acre, and Mount Misery - all places that denote the slow hunger and desperation of people forced to till unsuitable land.

That view on the summit sprang into my mind. After toiling on barren soil in all elements for little reward, seeing those rolling emerald hills would strike an acute pang in your stomach that no feast could satiate.

Some might question: why didn’t they simply move to a better plot of land? If all you could afford was a rocky outcrop in the first place, you probably didn’t have any good options to begin with.

Besides, what was the alternative? Trading in all you’ve ever known and casting your hopes on finding a job in a city? You would have to be especially desperate to trade your livelihood and community for a factory job that would likely end your life early.

As The National Archives put it: ‘Unsurprisingly, the average life expectancy contrasted greatly between town and countryside and also shows a great disparity between social classes. In 1840, 57% of the poor children living in Manchester died before they were 5 years. In rural areas this was 32%.

‘An agricultural worker in Rutland had a life-expectancy of 38, a factory worker in Liverpool, a life expectancy of 15 years. Urban living was not conducive to good health for the poorer classes particularly and cholera thrived in situations where there was an impure water supply.’

We like to think of these hills as wilderness, a blank canvas for our weekend escape or no-man’s land where people are equalled. But Mt Famine reminds us that the landscape has always been a ledger of policy and power. The farmers didn’t choose the rocky outcrop; a system chose it for them.

It may be easy to scoff and claim people need to adapt. In the face of all the change we’re experiencing today, with AI, climate change, and the geopolitical climate, surely we can all feel a sense of affinity with those past people toiling away on Mt Famine? How many of us, when faced with life-altering change, continue to do what we’ve always done because what else can we do? When your options are to endure or starve, you dig in a little deeper.

Recently I’ve heard people complain that “politics should stay out of nature”. If Mt Famine’s place name teaches us anything, that horse bolted the stable long ago. Politics decided what land we could walk on, who could own it, how it would be treated, etc., long ago.

To say politics should stay out of nature is to ignore the very name of the peak I just climbed. You cannot separate the ‘view’ from the ‘Enclosure Act’. If we ignore the politics of the land, we ignore the people who starved on it.

I think when people mean “politics should stay out of nature” they mean “I want to keep nature as my refuge from society”. Look, I get it. Escaping into the mountains gives us a restorative place to rest, recharge and face the tribulations of modern life.

The reality is, nature isn’t a refuge from society. It’s the foundation upon which society was built, often at a terrible cost.

Conversely, politics also means we have a say in how the land beneath our feet is shaped and preserved. To say politics should stay out of nature risks casting a blanket of ennui across our rights to access and improve the landscape, and our overall quality of living.

Place names are more than just labels for a map; they carry the weight of the trials and tribulations of our ancestors. When we ‘escape’ to the hills, we aren’t leaving the world of politics and human struggle behind. We are walking straight into the heart of it.

One day they will carry our stories - what would we want them to say?

Outside the climbing community, Gardom’s Edge is an underrated gem in the Peak District National Park. This gritstone escarpment and surrounding fields house an unbelievable density of archaeological features — approximately 2,000.

Beneath the birch woodland and blankets of bracken lie traces of lives lived across millennia: rock carvings, standing stones, enclosures and more.

This hike strings together some of Gardom’s most intriguing “showstoppers”, with detours to neighbouring edges where monuments from very different eras stand guard over the valley. From Bronze Age carvings to 19th-century memorials, this route invites you to ponder how we commemorate present events in our everyday lives.

🥾Route summary: Gardom’s Edge circular hike

Distance: approx. 8.56km / 5.3 miles
Time: 2.75 hours depending on pace and stops
Start/end point: Birchen Edge Car Park, Baslow, Bakewell DE45 1PU
Route highlights: Nelson’s Memorial, Three Ships boulders, Gardom Edge rock carving, Eagle Stone Wellington Memorial, Guide Stone, Companion Stone
Terrain: Rocky paths, farmland, gritstone edges
Facilities: No toilets available, but a pub is near the parking area
Accessibility: Some rocky sections and a busy road crossing

Hiking GPS file

Download the route via OS maps and follow the app’s instructions for straight-forward navigation. If you enjoyed the hike or found something of interest share below in the comments!

Warring memorials

Towards the top of Birchen Edge stands a single column. At first glance you might assume it’s to help tired climbers scrabble over the rock face, but the plaque reveals this gritstone memorial celebrates Admiral Nelson and his victory at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Constructed in 1810, the monument is flanked in the background by three boulders. Nicknamed “Ship Rocks” each one bears a name of Nelson’s famed fleet from Trafalgar (Victory, Defiance and Royal Soverin [sic]) and are a popular spot for boulderers.

If you turn your gaze across the valley to Baslow Edge, another story of victory comes into view — this one marked not by boulders, but by a cross rising from the treeline.

A large cross sits shrouded in tree branches, but back in 1866 it would have sat proudly for all to see across Baslow Edge and beyond.

The memorial was constructed by Dr Edward Mason Wrench, physician to the Chatsworth Estate, to commemorate Lord Wellington’s victory at the Battle of Waterloo. Whether he built it directly opposite Birchen Edge to counterbalance Nelson’s memorial across Gardom is debatable, but it makes a good story.

Bronze Age rock carvings

Leaving the path, the landscape suddenly shifts from open gritstone to dense undergrowth. It’s here, tucked away among bracken and birch, that you’ll find a tantalising clue of Gardom’s ancient past. A hefty slab of rock bearing distinctive cup and ring marks with a small swirl and circles sits incongruously. No signs and no directions sit to highlight this intriguing piece of archaeology sits in the landscape.

If you feel the stone, you may notice things feel… off. That’s because it’s not the original rock carving. The University of Sheffield moved the stone to its museum and replaced it with a replica in the 90s. If nothing else, it’s a quirky thing to prank your fellow hikers on.

Companion Stones and Guide Stoops

From 19th-century monuments the path takes you further back again, this time to a tradition that shaped how people moved across these wild uplands for centuries.

Imagine you’re a traveller in 17th century Derbyshire. Featureless moors stretch over the horizon, and dark, bloated snow clouds are rapidly approaching. Worst of all, you have no idea where you’re going.

Before well-worn footpaths and Ordnance Survey maps, travellers relied on carved stones to guide them through mist and moor.

In 1697 William III passed a decree to erect signposts in remote areas guiding travellers to the nearest market town. Today one of these stones will offer welcome confirmation you’re close(ish) to civilisation.

Just on the horizon you can spot a stone sail mid-flight, words carved into its side ready to escape into the skies. This companion stone is one of a dozen across the Peak District National Park as a collaborative project with local artists and designers to celebrate these guide stoops. The one you can see along the Eagle Stone flat was designed by Val Carman and poet David Fine.

By the time you’ve looped back from Gardom’s Edge, you’ll have traced a timeline carved into the gritstone: prehistoric symbols hidden in the undergrowth, memorials to distant naval battles, poetic sculptures inspired by ancient waymarkers. Each stop on the route is a reminder that this landscape has held a special place for generations of people.

I recently had a conversation with someone about heritage in natural landscapes. They lamented the struggle to get funding for conservation of historical sites in nature, in particular, because “there’s no strong voice advocating for them like the right to roam”.

As you guessed, it got me thinking. Turn on the TV and there are endless documentaries, travelogues and dramas where heritage in the outdoors takes centre focus. Stone circles would make a killing off guest appearances in Outlander.

There’s an obvious appetite for heritage in nature, and it drives crowds. Staying on the Outlander theme, heritage sites shown in the series saw a 67% increase in visitors after the series aired. Whether those crowds visited in the hope of bagging themselves a burly Scottish boyfriend from the 18th century is another matter, but my point still stands.

People love heritage sites in nature, and they’re willing to spend vast sums exploring them. So why does this enthusiasm falter when investing in their conservation?

Perhaps there’s an assumption that these sites have stood for 1,000 years already; they’ll stand for a thousand more. The problem is that this simply isn’t true.

Climate change is accelerating the erosion of stone sites like the Moai statutes on Easter Island. 95% of the Peak District National Park’s heritage assets have no statutory protection. Nor do they have the funds to monitor them. This situation is playing out across the UK. There’s a danger that sites like medieval enclosures can disappear with one ignorant shovel from a digger.

With everything happening in the world, some argue heritage just isn’t a priority. I think that’s a disservice to humans, though. We’re capable of holding space for more than one priority simultaneously.

Looking at Right to Roam’s campaigning, they have found success in rooting historical and emotional storytelling in their cause to action: “your ancestors spent centuries responsibly enjoying the landscape only for aristocrats to cordon it off from you”. It’s a powerful message, a David vs Goliath story that everyone can relate to. If there’s one thing the UK public hates, it’s unfairness.

Perhaps that’s what’s missing from the discourse of historical sites in nature: an emotional call to action. The struggle is finding one simple, direct message that incorporates the need across thousands of varied sites that everyone can find resonance with. With heritage conservation, it’s less about what you gain if you buy into the message, but what you will miss if you don’t:

• Endemic species that are providing crucial research towards medical advancement and climate change

• Vital research that helps us understand our past (i.e. we still don’t know definitively why stone circles were built)

• Breaking of assumptions and stereotypes

• Special places that inspire people and offer a connection to the past and nature

Like most of these debates, I think the answer will be a meandering and multitudinous one. I’d be interested to hear other people’s thoughts on this: why do you think historical sites in nature struggle to receive the same conservation efforts as other campaigns?

Anyways, enough of my rambles, here are some highlights from July:

Bite-size bulletins

New funding available for community nature projects: The Peak District Foundation has received funding to provide grants of up to £5,000 to create, improve, or increase spaces for nature. If you live around the Peaks and have an idea that could improve the biodiversity of your local area, why not apply?

Mountain Heritage Trust (MHT) celebrates 50th anniversary of Everest the Hard Way: 2025 marks fifty years since Chris Bonnington led an expedition to climb the South West face of Everest, with Doug Scott and Dougal Haston reaching the summit on that trip and becoming the first Brits to reach the top of the peak via that route.

To mark the occasion, MHT is launching a free exhibition of the expedition, with photographs and artefacts. Community Action Nepal are also hosting a talk with the surviving members of the expedition at the Royal Geographical Society.

The Jewry Wall Museum reopens: After a turbulent four years of restoration, the museum is reopening with new immersive multimedia exhibitions, greater accessibility, and the opportunity to view the remains of a Roman bathhouse. In particular, the museum will showcase Leicester’s links to the wider Roman world and how these early foundations influenced the development of the city today.

Renovating a heritage site, despite the considerable financial challenges of the pandemic, is no mere feat. However, I think it’s commendable that the museum invested in various technological and storytelling techniques to encourage people who might not otherwise enter a museum to engage with their local history.

AI is killing the web - can anything save it?: This takes a severe turn off the nature/history theme of AmorExplore, but I felt this piece was too provocative not to share. AI is effectively breaking the economic model of the World Wide Web. Sam Altman and co may not want to admit it, but without a viable alternative for writers, designers, illustrators, etc, there is little choice (or incentive) for them to continue sharing their content online, for free.

Inspiration from AmorExplore readers

How to climb an unclimbed mountain in Kyrgyzstan by 🏞: I was shocked by the number of peaks in the Tian Shan Mountains in Kyrgyzstan; it’s called the “Switzerland of Asia” for good reason. Half my trip was spent ruminating over potential summit expeditions, and it appears I’m not alone. Jennifer Roberts’ detailed explanation of planning an expedition is a great guide for anyone interested in how these trips work. Hint: an unfathomable amount of organisation and spreadsheets.

A rhapsody on bilberries by Peakrill Walks by 🍇Foragers will rejoice at Luke’s latest blog post, which details everything you’d want to know about the humble bilberry. I had no idea you could use wild thyme and bilberries to make a soda. It sounds like a dreamy flavour combination for summer evenings. If food and folklore are your jam, Luke is running a charity walk exploring both these topics in August - give it a looksie!

Better together: adventure and medicine by 👩‍⚕️ Medicine sounds like the perfect career for adventurers; you can find work worldwide, and if you hit a snaffu on a trip, you can treat yourself. But when a high-pressure job meets potentially stress-inducing hobbies, how do medical pros find balance and avoid burnout? These interviews from Her Adventurous Life provides great insight from women’s lived experiences in the field.

Creativity muses

A Moorland Notebook by Terry Howard: I picked up this small book from a Kickstarter campaign. Part personal reflection from decades rambling the Peak District, part guidebook, Howard’s musings feel like you’re holed away in a cosy pub chatting hiking secrets with the locals.

If you’re an advocate of Right to Roam, then you’ll love this book. It’s filled with suggestions for “trespass rambles” and history detailing how the public was gradually exiled from specific areas in the Peak District.

Is a River Alive? By Robert Macfarlane: Rob’s at it again. This time, his beautiful prose takes aim at rivers and questions whether we should reconsider our view of them as static courses and instead see them as living, changing participants in our natural world. I’m only halfway through IARA? but like most of Rob’s work, his writing encourages you to slow down and savour the scenes on the page.

Field notes from my desk

After spending the first half of this month galivanting around Istanbul and Kyrgyzstan, writing took a backseat. However, I do have an exciting piece in the pipeline with UKClimbing (more revealed soon!).

I also shared a great hike that takes in some of the highlights of the Yorkshire Dales without getting lost among the Three Peaks crowds.

For now, I’m consumed by photo edits and personal writing projects, but you can get a sneaky peek of some highlights from Kyrgyzstan on my Instagram. Or, check out the recent post I published on how folklore and oral traditions are woven into Kyrgyzstan’s history.

Choppy swells barged against our kayak as we rowed towards the shore. In the distance, crescent moons atop the sprawling necropolis winked from the opposing crags. It was disquieting reminder of the country’s ancient, layered past.

I’d come to Kyrgyzstan chasing fragments of the Silk Road, expecting ruins and museums. But what I found was something harder to pin down: a place where history is still alive. Not written, but spoken, sung, and shared.

‘Marco Polo visited Issyk Kul, and loved it’s beautiful waters. He even drank from the lake, which made him ill.’ Adam, our guide for the kayaking trip, explained.

‘Issyk Kul was a popular area along the Silk Road. During Marco Polo’s time Lake Issyk Kul’s water line was 8 metres lower than where it is today. Archaeologists did some diving surveys a few years ago and found remains of cities in the shallower ends of the lake.’

Gazing down at the saline sapphire waters, it wasn’t hard to imagine whole cities laying undisturbed. Issyk Kul stretches over 180 km with a depth of 668 metres at its lowest point. With the Tian Shan mountains enclosing the lake both north and south, the lake’s waters have been a welcome oasis for traders and travelers for centuries. Like the lake’s depths though, the Silk Road’s history here is elusive.

Historians dispute Marco Polo’s stop at Issyk Kul. There’s no written record confirming he visited or fell ill. Much of his travels along the Silk Road were through China1.

However there are dozens of versions of Polo’s Il Milione book, which historians also admit make it difficult to trace Polo’s journey through Central Asia with certainty. Not only that, but marine archaeologists have found the remains of a medieval city in Issyk Kul’s waters2.

What I was learning on this trip through Kyrgyzstan was that the Silk Road was not a singular, traceable highway, but a constellation of shifting routes across sea and land through Central Asia, China and India to Europe, shaped by politics, climate, and people’s memories.

It was in this tangled trail of persistent truths and elusive tales that we met 13-year-old Aruuke.

At a yurt camp beside Issyk Kul, we gathered for a rare performance of the Epic of Manas, offered as part of a photo project by Ivan Ryaskov. Usually, these oral recitations are reserved for local audiences and events. Watching a performance is rare for Western visitors. What made this moment even more remarkable was the performer, Aruuke.

Traditionally, menaschi (‘the tellers of Manas’) are adult men, trained to recite the 900,000-verse epic from memory. Passed entirely through oral tradition, The Epic of Manas tells the story of Manas and his descendants as they unite and defend the Kyrgyz people. This cultural touchstone combines history, folklore, and genealogy to explain the origins of modern Kyrgyzstan. It’s one of the longest epic poems in the world, composed in a trance-like chant that can last hours.

Much of the written historic material of Kyrgyzstan and its role in the Silk Roads originate from its static neighbours in Persia, Europe, China and Russia. While the Epic of Manas isn’t traditionally a wholly historical poem, it contains rich details about empires, tribes, and other socio-economic factors of its time.

During Stalinism, the Kyrgyz linguist Kasym Tynystanov tried repeatedly to get the Epic of Manas translated and published for decades. Stalin’s Propagandist-in-Chief refused, ironically calling the poem ‘an example of "bourgeois cosmopolitanism"3. It wasn’t until 1995, to commemorate the 1,000-year anniversary of Manas’s birth, that the Epic of Manas was fully translated and published in English.

Watching Aruuke deliver it with confidence and poise was breathtaking. Time folded around us; I imagined traders resting here centuries ago, listening to a similar voice recount a tale of unity, survival, and identity.

Reading about Manas later, a verse stayed with me:

The mountains fell apart, turning into ravines,
Ravines shook, turning into mountains.
Many seas became extinct
Leaving only their names behind.
Every fifty years, people were new,
Every hundred years the earth was renewed.4

For the nomadic Kyrgyz people, people came and went, as did cities and natural wonders. In a world of constant change, it was memory — not written records, nor monuments — that became a means of continuity.

This idea echoes in my head as we hike through the Skazka Canyon, otherwise known as Fairytale Canyon.

Rainbows of ochre, mustard, taupe, and carmine swirl around our heads. Wandering through this crumbling maze of chimneys and ridgebacks it’s not hard to assume how this environment inspired so many tales.

Legend states a dragon fell in love with a woman from a city in Issyk Kul. She rejected his advances, and the dragon tried to flood the cities each night by drawing water from the wells in retaliation. The locals countered his attacks by covering the wells in golden lids.

One night the woman forgot to cover a well. The cities and everyone in them are destroyed, and the waters swelled to form what we know today as Lake Issyk Kul. The dragon, so distraught from his destruction, turns to stone, forming Skazka’s unique rock formations.

Three stories of flooding. Surrounding Issyk Kul in the Tien Shan mountains are medieval settlements, towers and rock inscriptions that reinforce other historical accounts of Issyk Kul’s importance on the Silk Road5. In Issyk Kul itself though, little archaeological evidence reflects its grandiose reputation6.

While researchers are still excavating more evidence of Issyk Kul’s importance along the Silk Road, I wondered: did oral traditions and folk tales preserve a truth that archaeologists have yet to fully unearth?

After hours on windy gravel tracks we arrived at Tash Rabat, an important resting point along the Silk Road. Nestled between gnarled hillsides with the snowy peaks of the At-Bashy range hovering in the distance, the grey stone caravanserai cuts a lonely figure in the landscape.

A former 15th century Buddhist monastery turned Silk road outpost, at 3150m, it’s the highest caravanserai in the world.

Life on the Silk Road could be a dangerous one. If natural disasters weren’t awaiting you when traversing mountain ranges, droves of bandits could be sitting in ambush. Illness and lack of resources were other challenges traders regularly battled on the road. The threat of death and its cousin, financial ruination, were always present on the Silk Routes.

Caravanserai offered a crucial respite for traders. Shelter, food and water, and protection were available, plus it gave traders opportunity to acquire news and make connections. After days of constant vigilance, the little comfort and security caravanserai offered would have been welcomed by traders.

Here was the history I’d expected: stone, structure, timeline. But even here, the questions outnumber the facts. Was that deep pit a prison? A well? An escape tunnel? The guides offered theories, but no certainty.

These questions swirl in my head as we hike pass the caravanserai on a portion of the Silk Road to Panda Pass. Rain thunders down and misty whorls of cloud converge with the Tash Rabat river. Without Gore-tex and Vibram soles, the trek is a hard, soggy battle up slick clay hillsides and smooth scrambles. A German Shepherd adopts us early on the hike, bounding off on side-quests before re-emerging as inexplicably as an apparition in the vapours. We call him Bobby.

Eight kilometres in, and a chirruping chorus heralds a break in the showers. Marmots, hundreds of stocky brown cheeks with protruding teeth, squat along the hillsides and comment on our passing. A herd of horses whinny in reply and yaks grunt in the distance. I wonder if these yaks and horses were ancestors of livestock that escaped on the Silk Road.

The trail was muddy, steep, and slow-going at times. Yet, it felt fitting. The Silk Road, I was realising, wasn’t about monuments. It was about movement. About people and animals and stories migrating through mountains.

A final turn, and then a blast of icy wind proclaims the top of Panda Pass. Below the emerald waters of Chatyr Kol lake and just beyond that, as Aruuke points out, is the border to China. Looking at the terrain from a Golden Eagle’s eye view, the Tien Shan range’s vastness is beautiful in its ruggedness and intimidating as it stretches beyond the horizon. The knees tremble at the thought of traversing through these further.

Huddled by a shelter, we tuck into snacks and take turns feeding Bobby some chicken morsels. Bobby is his trail name, but I wonder what his actual name is back home, down by the caravanserai yurts. How many other hiking groups had he trailed along this route?

Perhaps that’s where I had been going wrong with the Silk Roads. I’d come looking for a historical site. But the Silk Roads were never static. They were living trails of memory. Here, history isn’t written. It’s walked and shared.

This month’s walk embraces a more Scandinavian vibe as we hike through the heart of the Yorkshire Dales. Place names rumble in the throat like a guttural car engine: hinga (“steep”), beck (“brook”), scar (“rocky outcrop”), and gill (“narrow valley”).

The Yorkshire Dales’ verdant hills carry a quietude that belies the weight of history in this landscape. Prehistoric humans scoured its hillsides for stone material for tools. Romans established camps and Vikings brought farmsteads and settlements.

With few crowds on this walk, you can wander and see the tumbling waterfalls and cratered hillsides as the previous inhabitants did centuries ago. While others chase the Yorkshire Three Peaks challenge, this hike will take you on a journey through time with relative solitude.

🥾 Walk summary

Route: Ribblehead Circular via Blea Moor, Force Gill Aqueduct, and Whernside shoulder
Start/End Point: Ribblehead Viaduct (shot walk from Ribblehead Station)
Distance: 10.4 miles / 16.74 km
Time: 6-8 hours (allow time for gawping at viaducts and waterfalls)
Grade: Moderate – clear paths, some rocky sections and elevation gain
Best for: History hunters, solitude seekers, fans of big skies and ghost detectives
Highlights: Ribblehead Viaduct, Blea Moor Signal Box, Force Gill Aqueduct, views of Whernside and Ingleborough, possible curlews, and maybe a spectral sighting (if you’re unlucky)

Hiking GPS file 🗺

Download the route via OS maps and follow the app’s instructions for easy navigation. Let me know how you found it via the comments section at the bottom of this post - the feedback helps me improve routes for the future!

Tombstones to Victorian industry

Ribblehead Viaduct rises like a plucky upstart between the ancient grit peaks of Whernside and Ingleborough. The lofty brick arches soar over the valley, a testament to Victorian engineering. They’re also airy tombstones to the numerous people that perished in its design.

In the 1870s some 2,300 people lived here in makeshift tent towns. Building a viaduct was dangerous business. If construction-related accidents didn’t get you, then smallpox or deadly brawls would just as easily spirit you away. Hundreds of workers died in the making of the Ribblehead Viaduct. The train company had to use additional funds to extend the local church’s cemetery to accommodate the number of burials.

It’s not surprising that the gruesome deaths against the backdrop of desolate Blea Moor have conjured ghost hauntings over the years. Signalmen at Blea Moor signal station have reported ghostly phone calls, and passengers have complained of carriages overcome by sickly sweet aromas when crossing the viaduct.

The viaduct isn’t the only remnant of Victorian ambition still in operation near Whernside.

The loneliest signal box in the country

As you approach Blue Clay Ridge, spare a thought for the folk that work at Blea Moor Signal Box. It’s the most remote signal box in the country.

Located far from any villages or settlements, Blea Moor is only accessible by foot. The signallers undertake important work here though; dozens of trains per day zoom past this incongruous wooden building. It’s only a matter of time before Wes Anderson makes it a key backdrop in his films.

Don’t go chasing waterfalls

TLC may have advised against exploring waterfalls, but they said nothing about aqueducts. The Force Gill aqueduct - named after the Norse-rooted words for ‘waterfall’ and ‘ravine’ - was built by Midland Railway to carry Force Gill into Dale Beck. It’s a scenic place to stop and admire Whernside. If you look closely, there’s also a waterfall nearby, but we won’t tell TLC if you don’t.

As mentioned in one of my notes earlier this month, I wanted to trial a new format. There is so much creativity and inspirational stories out there, but the endless content dumps for dopamine looping and zombie scrolling can make it impossible for these worthwhile tales to take their deserved spotlight.

This is where Wild Post comes in. Each month I’ll share a curated list of Substack posts, news, features, discussions, and other stories from the world wide web that align with AmorExplore’s core interests. It’s a new venture, so share ideas and feedback, and most of all, expect change as I fine-tune this over the upcoming months!

Bite-size bulletins

New project alert: People of the Peak

The Peak District National Park Foundation announced a new project to help monitor and conserve monuments and buildings across the landscape.

People of the Peak has ambitious plans to broaden the conservation, data recording, and monitoring of the park’s heritage and biodiversity of these sites. The project could serve as a vital case study to illustrate the importance of the national park’s heritage sites towards supporting the wider ecology of the Peaks. Given that only 5% of the park’s heritage sites have any statutory protection (I explain more in my feature on caving archaeology in the Peaks) this project could have enormous potential.

People of the Peak will include a huge volunteer recruitment drive, especially among young people and diverse communities. You can submit your interest or learn more via the the Peak District NPF website.

Mountain Rescue callouts and tech

Speaking of young people and nature, this news report highlighting how mountain rescue were called out every day in 2024, with a significant increase in callouts among those aged 18-24, is making the rounds on social media again. Some argue social media is to blame; others find fault in the navigation apps.

Like most of these issues, the answer isn’t clear-cut as people would like. Of course, some level of accountability should be assumed. Yet I do empathise with young people. How many opportunities do they have to learn navigation skills or any outdoor education? They’re routinely criticised for not engaging enough with the outside world, and then chided if they explore the outdoors differently to previous generations.

Navigational apps have encouraged more people to appreciate nature, but it comes with added responsibility to ensure hikers explore safely and responsibly. From experience, accountability isn’t a value tech companies uphold. If the fallout from Komoot’s acquisition is anything to go by, this approach won’t change either.

I’m interested to hear other people’s thoughts on this topic. How can we encourage more people to explore the outdoors more safely?

Inspiration from AmorExplore readers

Each month I want to share posts from AmorExplore followers that offer new perspectives, unusual focuses, or plain ol’ entertainment. Junes seems to be the month where everyone slinks off to enjoy adventures while the weather is bringing its best self. I appreciate it all the more that people take time to share their adventures.

1. We're going on a bear hunt by 🐻 I came for the bears but stayed for the raccoon dogs. Living in an ecologically sparse country like the UK, the sheer mention of reintroducing animals like wolves, bears or lynx to the wild generates outcries of fearmongering. The piece illustrated the special encounters we’re missing with these giants of nature.

2. What in the Sam Hill? It's Stonehenge! by 🏞 The PNW is the last place you’d expect to see Stonehenge, but to eccentric entrepreneur and Europhile Sam Hill he felt it was the ideal place to commemorate this prehistoric monument. Sam Hill’s undertaking shows the lasting influence heritage sites in nature can have on our creativity and drive.

3. Closer to the true heart of things by 💓 A chance encounter in a bothy leaves Alex questioning our motivations for adventure. Without deadlines, the pressure of “content” or perceived demands of audiences, would our explorations outside take a different path?

   The piece made me examine my motivations under a harsh light. I’m definitely guilty of pushing myself on grueling hikes or summits because I felt that was what others would expect of me over choosing my preference for a slow meander to gaze at a boulder field or lake. Going forward, I’m prioritising my wanton roaming through the countryside instead.

Creativity muses

I’m off to Kyrgyzstan next month, so I’ve been consuming books to better understand the country’s history:

Jamilia by Chingiz Aitmatov

When a book is touted as “the greatest love story ever told” it goes to the top of the TBR pile. Through the forbidden affair between Jamilya and Daniyar you get snippets of the rugged beauty of Kyrgyzstan’s jailoos. Jamila is set in 1943; the upheaval of WWII and the transition from a nomadic lifestyle to collective farming is keenly felt.

Turkestan Solo by Ella Maillart

This travelogue covers the journey of Ella Maillart as she travels from Kazakhstan to Kyrgyzstan in 1932. Maillart is sparing in details about herself, choosing instead to fixate on the people and landscapes she encounters on her travels, and give context on the historical background for situations.

The book is a nostalgic ode to a bygone form of travel. Transport and accommodation can provide hardships and travails or long stretches of nothingness. This always seems to be when the biggest sources of adventure spring forth.

While undoubtedly covered by many others already, The Ballad of Wallis Island is been one of the best films I’ve seen this year so far. The wordplay will catch you off-guard, and the character development felt earnest (in a good way) and loveably messy. I’ve only seen Tim Key in comedy roles previously but his subtle flexing between humour and sorrow did the impossible: made me frown and smile simultaneously.

Field notes from my desk

I won’t lie, I’ve spent a good chunk of June basking in its endless sunny evenings away from the desk. Consistency has never been my strength, unless you count consistently choosing adventures outside.

Regardless, I’ve been tinkering away with a few long-term projects and still delivering some small work:

• Submitted a piece to New Mountain Project’s latest venture, New Mountain Times. Experience is the best teacher, and I think it’s important to be honest about your fuckups for others to learn from. Submissions are still open, so get involved! Here’s the only spoiler I’ll share: 🐮🥾🏎🌳🏃‍♀️🤢have a guess!

• Published my Substack on the Dog Stone in Kinder. This had all the elements of a classic adventure: mysterious relic, a hiking route “dogged” with obstacles, and a four-legged companion for company. I couldn’t stop grinning for days afterwards.

• I’ll be joining on her Wild About Kinder podcast this month! Hearing what Kinder means to other guest speakers has been a huge source of inspiration for my own ventures around the peak.

  Thanks for reading AmorExplore! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

If you’re a believer of sacred geometry, you’ll know the circle symbolises the expansion of consciousness. This hike won’t unlock spiritual enlightenment, but this loop through Kinder’s lesser-known circular archaeological features might shift your perspective in unexpected ways. That’s got to be more valuable than reaching a higher spiritual plane, right?

Kinder’s slopes have been shaped by human hands for thousands of years. Echoes of rituals, agriculture, and industry still reach out through the peat and stone. The signs are there; you just need to know how to look.

This circular route offers glimpses of Kinder’s vital role in shaping the Peak District’s communities. It’s perfect for training your eye and broadening your understanding of the land's layered history. Whether you come for Kinder’s natural beauty or its spiritual or historical significance, you will walk away with a sense of awe for this landscape.

🥾Route summary: Kinder Reservoir Circular Hike

Distance: approx. 9.55km / 5.9 miles
Time: 3.5-4 hours depending on pace and stops
Start/end point: Bowden Bridge Car Park, Hayfield (SK22 2LE)
Route highlights: Kinderlow Cavern (concealed), Neolithic/Bronze Age burial mound, Cluther Rocks quarry ruins and millstones, Kinder Reservoir, Booth Sheepwash
Terrain: Rocky paths, farmland, gritstone edges; some boggy patches around Cluther Rocks and Kinder Reservoir
Facilities: No toilets available, but a pub is near the parking area
Accessibility: Some rocky sections and boggy areas

Hiking GPS file

Download the route via OS maps and follow the app’s instructions for easy navigation. Let me know how you found it via the comments section at the bottom of this post!

⚠️Before you start hiking…

1. Peat erosion can expose artefacts. Please leave what you find!

2. The burial mound is scheduled under the Ancient Monuments Act. Avoid climbing on it or letting your dog dig around there.

3. Respect the fragile moorland ecology and stick to clear paths where possible.

Mysterious mounds and disappearing spaces

Soon after leaving farmland behind and the trail climbs Kinder’s lower slopes. You may spot Kinderlow Cavern on the map, but its grandiose name belies its innocuous appearance. In fact, you’ll struggle to find it.

For decades, tales of Kinderlow Cavern have circulated among cavers and curious hikers. Once considered one of Derbyshire’s most spectacular natural formations, its chambers were described in The History and Gazetteer of the County of Derby (1831) as:

“Kinder Low subterraneous Cavern. Among the many wonderful caverns in Derbyshire, none seem, for extent and internal beauty, more to merit the attention of the curious observer of the hidden works of nature in her wild recesses,...”

“The sides and roof in this part are composed of huge masses of rock, so regularly and compactly united, that it might be the work of an architect: and after going through innumerable chambers, which for extent and loftiness of the roof, are not inferior to the most celebrated in Peak's Hole, they discovered an opening in the floor, through which they with difficulty descended, and found themselves in a part of the cavern which runs in a direction exactly parallel with the part above. Here the largest chamber they had gone through, seemed only as the portico to this amazing cavern : the eye could scarcely reach the lofty ceiling, the sides and floor of which were regularly formed of immense masses of solid rock.”

The History and Gazetteer of the County of Derby

By Stephen Glover

Published 1831

Unfortunately the cave entrance was filled in and concealed with heather. Perhaps to keep sheep from falling in, or to prevent “trespassers” following the award of public access rights. While the truth remains buried, hunting for the lost cavern adds a welcome note of adventure to this walk.

From here, a great gated mound stands watch over Kinder’s foothill. Archaeologists have dated this burial mound to the Neolithic or Bronze age. Beaker pottery and flint tools have been found falling out of the peat nearby, tantalising clues of lives lived with reverence for Kinder.

Its location raises questions. Too short to be of any defensive or navigational importance, the burial mound’s location was nonetheless chosen with deliberation. Perhaps it reminded the living of their ancestral ties, or their association with Kinder?

One thousand years of industry

While the stretch between Kinder Low and Red Brook packs dramatic vistas, Cluther Rocks brings quiet mystery. Here, you’ll find subtle signs of ancient industry: the remains of quarrying and millstone production that span from Roman times to the Victorian era.

When demand for gristone slumped, millstones were simply abandoned where they lay. Pause and imagine the shouts of labourers, the clinking sounds of tools on grit, the ache of muscle in cold winds as the quarrymen worked year-round outside. Gritstone quarrying was brutal work, but it shaped the landscape and communities around Kinder.

As you zig-zag along Cluther Rocks, keep an eye out for the Dog Stone (carved boulder with a mysterious purpose) and undulating mounds in the grass denoting ancient settlements and medieval agricultural practices. Little evidence remains about their past today, and according to most archaeologists, it’s better to leave the remnants unturned.

Hydropower

The final section of this circle-themed hike highlights the importance water played in shaping Kinder’s landscape. Kinder Reservoir (built between 1903 and 1911) provides drinking water for the local communities. The ornate Edwardian buildings reflect their ambition at the time, although today hikers may pause and comment that Kinder Reservoir resembles a backdrop to a Wes Anderson film. When framed by rhododendrons in summer, Kinder Reservoir is a stunning spot to pause and catch your breath.

Just beyond Kinder Reservoir Booth Sheepwash sits under a welcome shaded canopy. In the 1900s farmers would bring their flocks to this pool May for a scrubbing before shearing them. Neither sheep nor farmer were fans, but an accidental sheep escape or farmer dunking made it a popular spectator event.

Kinder is a landscape abounding with folklore and mystery. Cavers pore over debates on the lost entrance to the fabled Kinderlow Cavern. Tales of mermaids, nymphs, and ancient Celtic rituals are tied to Kinder’s eerie Mermaid Pool. Lost hikers caught in adverse weather report being guided to safety by the ghosts of those who perished in plane crashes around the plateau.

I was searching for one Kinder legend on my hike: the enigmatic Dog Stone.

Mentioned to me by a fellow hiker whose enthusiasm for history and folklore matched my own, the Dog Stone doesn’t appear on any maps. You won’t find it in any guidebooks. Few trail planning apps mention it. It's one of those whispered-about features, shared between hikers over pints and storm shelters.

I’d started my day with gusto and a sense of adventure alongside Tryfan the Toller. What he lacks in navigational talent he compensates for by bounding through any wild terrain and stealing bananas from unsuspecting hikers’ lunches. Several hours in — half-lunging, part-falling through the notorious concealed ankle-breaker holes among Cluther Rocks — I was questioning my sanity.

Tryfan was in his element, bounding across the boulder fields and resting astride a domed quern stone. These much-needed beacons were the confirmation among the jagged gibbers that we were on the right track.

Humankind’s connection to Kinder’s wild terrain stretches back a millennia. Archaeologists have uncovered Bronze Age flint tools and arrowheads along its slopes. The area is mentioned in both the Domesday Book1 and the Rotuli Hundredorum, and the famous Downfall waterfall is referred to in the latter as "Cliff of the Beacon Fires”.

Prehistoric burial mounds dot the hillsides. Medieval earthworks squiggle Kinder’s sides like ancient fingerprints. Its western reaches, including Cluther Rocks, have long been a source of quality stone. Lichen and bilberry gradually reclaim these echoes of industry but among the worked remnants, I finally stumbled across the Dog Stone.

It stood below my head height, partially sheltered by low shrubs, gazing east across Kinder Reservoir to the gentle slopes of Leygatehead Moor. Its smooth surface sparkled in the light, giving the mysterious carvings on its upper side an almost supernatural sheen.

The incisions of the symbols are clean, measured and precise. The carvings look as if they were done yesterday.

The figure resembled a working hound, with a strong jaw, muscular hind legs, stocky midriff and pointed, alert ears. Even the flick of the dog’s narrow tail appeared animated and alive. Around it sits three lines of symbols: dots, dashes, and lines. At the bottom three symbols jump out, drawn in a slightly different style to the rest.

There’s no author’s signature. No graffiti to suggest who left the message, or why this location was chosen.

Like other hikers before me, I leave the Dog Stone with more questions than answers and a hunger to learn more.

Back home, I began digging into the archaeology of the area. According to The National Trust Heritage Records2 Cluther Rocks is rich in evidence of millstone and grindstone quarrying, dating from the Iron Age and Roman periods through to the 18th century. Evidently the stone here is of exceptional quality.

One record in particular stands out:

“On one boulder within the area of quarrying in Cluther Rocks is an inscription in code accompanied by an arrow pointing east and the depiction of a dog. The code is reputedly that of the Freemason's and has been translated by Brian Robinson as follows:

SHE MAY BE

SMALL BUT SHE IS OF

THE BEST GREEN

STONE

The arrow also has the symbol for E (east) inscribed in its centre. There is no indication of when this might have been carved.”

The mention of Freemasons sparked my interest. Freemason’s Code is a common synonym for Pigpen Cypher. Effectively, it’s a coded system that substitutes geometric shapes for letters. While Pigpen Cypher’s stretch to the 1500s, the version Freemasons popularised is a later version with dots and squares.

On the map, the Dog Stone lies in a stretch of lush green moorland, pockmarked by quality gritstone. Whoever carved the message likely knew the land well.

Perhaps the inscription was the work of a quarryman who was also a Freemason? Lamenting the loss of a beloved terrier that accompanied him to work, he etched a tribute to him, comparing the dog’s loyalty and strength to the prized stone they worked together. The arrow might mark a final resting place, pointing toward the hills the pair once roamed, or his companion’s final resting place?

It’s a common theory among hikers, but has its challengers. In his blog post recreating the Dog Stone Stu Wakefield from Ranger Expeditions points out that the first word of the cipher, often read as “she,” could in fact be “see,” changing the tone of the inscription entirely.

Stu’s post explores the possibility that the final line of code is more Masonic symbology. It could refer to the standard Masonic badge of the square and the circle, symbolising the convergence of earthly and spiritual responsibilities.

He also posits that the geometric shapes hold more general symbolism in Western society. In particular:

• Triangle: past, present, and future

• Square: stability, the earth

• Circle: spirituality, wholeness, the sacred found in nature

In Stu’s opinion, the Dog Stone carving is a tribute of gratitude to God, the landscape, and the living things that call it home, and the interconnectivity between the three.

Without further archaeological research or knowledge of the artist’s identity, the Dog Stone’s meaning is up to interpretation. At the heart of the discussion though, does it matter?

If the artist wanted their intention truly known, they would have elucidated.

As for me? After a day hiking in the sunshine around Kinder with Tryfan trotting by my side, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the landscape, the legends, and the quiet companionship of a loyal friend.

If you ask Tryfan, I reckon he’d say it was a monument to canine superiority. But he’s too busy munching on the banana he took from my bag to confirm.

What’s your interpretation of the Dog Stone?

Sometimes, a place is popular for a very good reason. Like the Grand Canyon or the Salkantay Pass to Machu Picchu, some landscapes defy photography — they can only be truly appreciated with your own senses.

Personally, I’d add Padley Gorge, the starting point of this trail, on this list. It may be most famous for its tight-knitted ancient woodland, ablaze with autumn colour come October, but Padley is far from a one-season wonder.

Winter unfurls a cloak of mist through lush moss curtains and lichen-speckled boulders. A cacophony of birdsong awakens Padley for a verdant spring, and come summer the gorge’s woodland offers a welcome respite from the long sunny days.

This hike takes in more than just Padley Gorge, tracing a loop across other iconic Eastern Edges of the Peak District: Higger Tor, Owler Tor, Carl’s Wark, Millstone Edge, and Lawrencefield. These are landscapes invite playfulness with their moonscape-like rock formations you can’t help but climb.

Long before social media, people came here for spiritual connection, survival, and stone. Today, these places tell stories layered in gritty contours and leafy canopies.

⚠️Before you start hiking…

This route will take you through several sensitive environments in the Peak District. To preserve their beauty so you and others can enjoy them, please don’t do the following:

1. Build rock stacks: Even moving small stones can worsen erosion, degrade soil, and disturb wildlife habitats. Plus, when 100+ people do it, the Peaks looks more like a sculpture garden than a national park.

2. Climb boulders when wet: Grit is known for its toughness but once wet it crumbles faster than a New Year resolution in February. These rocks took 300 million years to reach their iconic quirky shape; let’s not undo their hard work in an afternoon.

3. Carve into the rocks: It causes long-term damage and leaves an ugly scar. If you want to leave your mark on the environment, take positive action, like taking trash you find home with you, or be a conservation volunteer.

Temperate rainforests

It’s hard to think of Britain as a destination for rainforests, but swathes of the Atlantic coastline — from the top of Scotland down to Cornwall — once stretched across the country.

Centuries of tree-felling, mining, and sheep grazing means only 1% of this forest remains. Padley Gorge is one of the few survivors.

In fact, it is one of the most inland examples of temperate rainforests in the UK. With its high humidity, steady rainfall, dense oak and birch canopy, and thriving undergrowth of mosses and lichens, the gorge offers the perfect conditions for rainforest life.

Temperate rainforests like Padley Gorge held spiritual significance to Celtic peoples. Given the proximity of stone circles to the north and east of Padley Gorge, it’s not hard to imagine druids and Celtic tribes quietly slipping into this verdant world.

Ancient stones

Head further along the trail, passing the majestic obelisk of Mother Cap, Owler Tor, Carl’s Wark and Higger Tor. A liberal trail of millstone breadcrumbs will lead you on the way.

Approaching Carl’s Wark, you may notice its craggy face differs somewhat from neighbouring Higger Tor. Debate abounds as to Carl’s Wark’s purpose, but many agree it was once an Iron Age fort due to its panoramic views and natural ramparts.

That sense of deja vu? Carl’s Wark was the backdrop for a scene in the 1987 film The Princess Bride. In fact, much of the film was shot in the Peak District - you can see Buttercup’s Farm and Westley and Fezzik’s dueling location on my Nine Stones Circle Walk.

Industrial relics

Looping back towards Millstone Edge, you can glimpse the Peak District’s industrial heyday. As you walk along Millstone Edge you will see remnants of old quarry buildings and works. From the medieval period till the 19th century the rock here was quarried to be used for millstones.

When demand for white bread surged and chert stone became the standard, the gritstone industry collapsed practically overnight. Rows of millstones in Lawrencefield sit, waiting to leave for the millhouses.

However the fortunes of Padley Gorge and the surrounding area had one last stroke of industrial good fortune. Bolehill, just north of Padley Gorge, played a crucial role in the construction of the Derwent and Howden dams. Starting in 1903, the site became a flurry of tents, temporary railways, and stone extraction. By 1914 it was silent again.

Today, nature has reclaimed much of it. Echoes can still be heard in the fireplaces, storehouses, and carved remains whispering their history beneath the bracken.

This trail is a time capsule layered with natural wonder, ancient belief, and industrial ambition.

To walk it is to trace the steps of druids, miners, hikers, and merchants. It’s a reminder that landscapes are not just scenery, they’re living, evolving archives of who we were, who we are, and what we might still become.

See this hike for yourself — download the route via OS maps and follow the app’s instructions for easy navigation. Let me know how you found it via the comments section at the bottom of this post!

🥾Route summary: Padley Gorge to Higger Tor Loop

Distance: approx. 8.5km / 5.3 miles
Time: 2.5–3.5 hours depending on pace and stops
Start/end point: Grindleford Station (ideal for public transport), but paid parking is available
Route highlights: Padley Gorge, Mother Cap, Owler Tor, Carl’s Wark, Higger Tor, Millstone Edge, Lawrencefield
Terrain: Woodland trails, rocky paths, gritstone edges
Facilities: No toilets available, unless you visit a cafe in Grindleford
Accessibility: Some rocky sections and boggy areas

Humans will make their mark on nature, and nature will always find a way to reclaim. When human influences happened centuries ago, you're left with landscapes where it’s impossible to tell where human hands end and nature begins.

This circular hike through Youlgreave and Lathkill Dale is a living example. It’s a testament to both human industrial ambition and nature’s quiet, relentless power to thrive in any landscape. The pastoral fields around Youlgreave and Conksbury quickly yield to the jagged limestone towers of Lathkill Dale, where ruins and wildflowers intertwine.

⚠️Before you start hiking…

If you’ve ever pored over an OS map, you’ve seen gothic-style font scattered among the contours. For context, the text refers to any site that is non-Roman and carries some historical or archaeological significance.

Visiting them is a gamble. Sometimes, the remains are vivid and dramatic — stone circles, ancient settlements, even rock art. Other times, you're standing in a barren field wondering if you missed something. That’s part of the adventure: learning to read the subtle clues in the landscape.

So, consider this walk a training ground, not just for your legs, but for your eyes. Whether ruins are prominent or faint, every visit builds a better knack for spotting history where it hides in the natural landscape.

Ghost towns in the grass

The trail begins in the historic village of Youlgreave (see my Nine Stones Circuit walk for a different perspective), but this route quickly veers into less-trodden terrain. Heading north, you’ll arrive at the deserted medieval settlement of Conksbury.

Today, a few grassy mounds and a faint rectangular platform hint that a village once stood here. In fairness, Conksbury never had a chance to get off the ground.

According to the Domesday Book, roughly 6.8 households existed in Conksbury in the 11th century, putting it in the bottom 40% of settlements in England1.

Over the centuries, Conksbury was passed between knights, abbeys, and priories like a game of real estate pass-the-parcel, until Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and left places like this to fade into the landscape.

Now it’s a quiet, tufted field. Perhaps that’s how its inhabitants always saw it, too. A small settlement, hemmed in by fields and sky.

Limestone fortresses and mining ingenuities

From Conksbury, the route flows into Lathkill Dale, where limestone cliffs rise like fortresses and nature and industry blend in strange harmony.

Between the 13th and 19th centuries, this dale buzzed with lead mining and milling. Today, remnants of that era still linger. Some signs are subtle, others more striking. You’ll spot shallow mine shafts and test tunnels just metres from the path. Small weirs and ancient ponds, once part of the milling infrastructure, now feed crystal-clear cascades.

Look closely: the water’s so clear you can trace the midribs of aquatic flora. Engine houses, millstone fragments, and waterwheel structures sit camouflaged in bracken and wildflowers. Birds dart through broken lintels. Trees nestle in collapsed stone.

With the dale’s limestone crags rising all around, it’s not hard to imagine this valley as a setting for ghost stories and folklore.

Enjoy this circular hike between Youlgreave and Lathkill Dale via the GPS file on OS maps. The app will guide you along the route so you have more time to enjoy the history and scenery along the trail.

🥾 Route summary: Youlgreave to Lathkill Dale Circular

Distance: 6.9 miles/11.09 km
Time: approx. 4 hours (depending on pace and stops)
Start/End: Youlgreave village
Terrain: Fields, riverside trails, rocky dale paths, some uneven ground
Difficulty: Moderate (short ascents/descents, muddy sections after rain)
Parking: Coldwell End, Bakewell DE45 1UY. Technically free however I recommend a £3 donation
Highlights:

• Deserted medieval village of Conksbury

• Lathkill Dale’s dramatic limestone cliffs

• Lead mining ruins and waterfalls

Facilities:

• Toilets and pubs in Youlgreave

• No facilities en route — bring water and snacks

• Map: OS Explorer OL24 (White Peak)

• Caution: Some paths near mine shafts are narrow; take care near edges

You’d expect a black marble mine to feel like entering a black hole. Devoid of light, texture, atmosphere — a general nothingness. Rookery Black Marble Mine is none of those things. Technically, it’s not marble, nor is it black. The one thing Rookery Mine can promise is surprises.

Tucked beneath a rocky outcrop and shrouded in woodland lies an unassuming metal gate leading to Rookery Mine. It’s a low shuffle through a warren of stacked debris through the entrance, reminiscent of the drystone walls that segment the Peaks.

Something tickles my neck as I clamber in. I turn to find a spindly tree root dangling through a chasm in the rock, my headtorch reflecting a droplet of morning dew off its searching end. Between the black rock, darkness, and tree roots, it would be easy to think I was buried six feet under if not for my caving companions chattering in the background.

Together, we clamber with a propulsive gait downhill into a tunnel called The Dook. It’s surprisingly roomy and open. Our trip leader, Larry, stops and invites us to stoop over the map. Names like Hades, Sheba, The Dook and Nook, and The Circus catch my eye.

‘You’re taking us to Hades, Larry? Do we need to be worried?’ I joked.

“Rookery isn’t technically difficult to navigate, but we should be careful about the ceilings here and stay behind any tethered-off areas. You’ll see why shortly. Also, keep an eye on the walls — there are some great fossils and rock formations, among other things.” Larry waves us onward towards Hades.

Since prehistory, Ashford Black Marble’s inky black limestone attracted humans due to its decorative properties. At first glance, it looks unremarkable. Once cut and polished, Ashford Black Marble’s deep, reflective surface makes the perfect blank slate for inlaid designs.

The Victorian era saw a frenzy for Ashford Black Marble, fuelled by the Industrial Revolution and Queen Victoria’s mourning of Prince Albert.

The bucolic village of Ashford-in-the-Water quickly became a hub of industry between the 16th and 19th centuries, with wealthy aristocrats and clergy members clamouring for black marble fireplaces, obelisks, urns, altars, even tables1.

By the turn of the century, demand declined with the introduction of cheap coloured glass. Rookery Mine closed its doors by 1905.

Gazing around Hades and the neighbouring chambers, hulking great segments of Black Marble still lie in situ. If ever demand resurges, Rookery Mine is ready. Yet another challenge remains.

‘Larry, what are those panels tacked to the ceiling?’

Watch your head — the Derbyshire Caving Association monitors rock movement in Rookery Mine.

Larry examines them. “Those monitor rock movement. The Derbyshire Caving Association checks them for the Chatsworth Estate. If these panels shift or fall, the rock above is unstable, and a notice will be put out. Anyway, there’s something else you need to see…”

I follow him over piles of collapsed stone to The Loop and the Working Face. Our head torches cast light on the walls, revealing elaborate graffiti.

‘H Roberts… Gooseberry… Sheldon…’ the names trail off my lips, my headtorch tracing flourishes in the pearly chalk.

A paragraph gleams in the corner. I peer closer.

‘Boys be men & fight
for your flag freedom
& king & queen
God save the king’

‘Many of these
grow some now midst
misery & woes None thought
as boys as had
would… men….’

The words strike a deep lament in my chest. Who wrote this? Why here, in a dank, shadowy, retired mine? It seemed an unlikely place for poetry.

Sections of the graffiti made no sense, words fading as the chalk dissolved into the damp atmosphere of the mine. The meaning was clear, though. It spoke of loss; the earnestness of youth quelled too soon.

Larry and the others bounded towards The Arena. I trailed behind, my mind transfixed by the mystery author and the intention behind that inscription.

Here, the tunnels were orderly and structured, but nature still found a way to make its mark. Spider sacks dangled in corners, and Larry pointed out a bat in one corner, motioning for us to keep quiet. Just as we rounded another corner, an explosion of glitter dazzled us all.

We stopped and gazed, mesmerised by the ripples in the rock.

‘It looks like a pot noodle has exploded here,’ Larry joked. The flowstones rippled down the ceiling and pooled on the mine floor.

‘I was thinking it looked like that Joy Division album cover,’ Byron, another fellow caver in our group, joked.

Caves house conditions perfect for creating incredible rock formations, unlike anything you can see above ground. Yet they’re incredibly delicate. Small environmental changes or an unintentional swipe of a muddy glove can permanently damage these geological formations.

Later that night, as I rinsed my boilersuit, the lingering moroseness of the passage in Working Face filled my head with questions.

The indecipherable words also filled me with a slight alarm.

Someone made an effort to write that passage down there; what if it is lost forever, with no record?

I won’t be the first person to want to learn more about the author, could I? Surely the inscription has touched others, too?

A search for Rookery Mine and graffiti resulted in miscellaneous caving publications, historical PDFs, and research notes. Peak District National Park Authority archaeologist John Barnatt completed a survey of the archaeology of Rookery Mine in 2018 alongside Terry Worthington for The Bulletin for the Peak District Mines Historical Society. The elaborate detail and photography taught me even more information that I had missed on my trip through Rookery, I realised.

I was halfway through scrolling when the words jumped out at me:

“Boys be men & fight
for your flag freedom
& king & queen
God save the king - and king should be King
Many of these (are past) grow some (a..ng) now midst
misery & woes None thought
as boys as had (lives)
would (not)
men (be)”

Barnatt and Worthington transcribed the words with some admitted uncertainty.

Out of all the names and dates graffitiied in Rookery Mine2, several appeared repeatedly: H Roberts, Joseph Sheldon, and J Sheldon. Both boys had family links to marble extraction at the mine.

Barnatt and Worthington continue to deduce that previous assumptions 19th-century quarrymen made the graffiti is incorrect:

“When the names were being added this gallery was almost certainly accessed by the now-blocked lower entrance that was filled sometime in 1915-19 period when the chert quarry was being worked nearby… The dated graffiti was added after Rookery Mine had been effectively abandoned.”3

Using research from the dated inscriptions, the Ashford parish registers, census returns, and churchyard memorials, Barnatt and Worthington determined that those named in the workings were local boys and young men, between 9 and 23 years old when they placed their names in Rookery Mine.

A picture began forming in my mind, yet the pieces were disjointed.

Henry Roberts was 15 when he etched his name into Rookery Mine in 19044. When World War I broke out, he enlisted in the Kings Own (Yorkshire Light Infantry) and was killed in action in Belgium on 14 July 1917.

According to Barnatt, multiple J Sheldons appear in Ashford-on-the-Water, making his story harder to trace. However, he found a James Sheldon who was born in 1885 and enlisted in the Sherwood Foresters Regiment. He was killed in action on 01 June, 1917.

Could Henry and James have known each other? If so, what made them explore Rookery Mine?

Barnatt has a theory for that. If the lower entrance had been blocked off, the boys could have entered via a blind chamber. Given the proclivity of other graffiti denoting nicknames like ‘Donkeys Breath’ and ‘Gooseberry’, and sexually explicit etches, it’s possible this area of Rookery Mine was a playful "den” for local boys.

Reaching the Working Face with only candles would have been an adventure in its own right. With the myriad tunnels, collapsing rock, and intriguing rock formations, it’s the perfect place for boys wanting a caper. Heck, it’s a source of fun for adult cavers.

Barnatt mentions one final name in his research: Joseph Sheldon. Brother of James Sheldon, Joseph was born in 1889 and also enlisted.

Records show that he survived and was awarded the Military Cross5 with bar and the Distinguished Service Order. Barnatt notes that Joseph rose from Private to Captain during the war, dying years later in 1965.

Could Joseph, Barnatt questions, have been the one to write the commemorative inscription as a tribute?6

I sit back, my mind ensnared by the thought of Joseph Sheldon as the author. Years spent cavorting with friends and siblings in Rookery Mine, its network of chambers being a source of adventure and fond memories. How did he feel returning to his childhood play area, with the echoes and memories of his lost friends and brother for company?

Did the dark chambers and tunnels transform from teenage fun to macabre fright of reliving the trenches for Joseph when he returned on his own?

Or was he simply a man who desperately missed his brother James and his friends and wanted their sacrifice recognised somewhere they all once loved?

The abundance of cenotaphs throughout the UK and Remembrance Day allows us to express gratitude for their sacrifice. How often, though, do we hear the personal stories of those who fought in World War I? To learn of those tethers in life, such as friendships, family, hobbies, and memories that make up life's cords, and how they were suddenly cut short?

How often do we hear the stories of those who survived and how they took those frayed tethers and tried to give them a final bind?

When we think about the archaeology of remembrance, cemeteries, cenotaphs or grand monuments like the Taj Mahal, or the graffiti found in Pompeii and Herculaneum7 spring to mind.

More recently, informal memorials, such as plaques left on hillsides or inscriptions on benches, have sparked debate. Do individuals have the right to alter the natural landscape? When does an inscription shift from defacement to historical significance?

Graffiti in natural spaces challenges our understanding of heritage. Who decides what should be preserved or erased? If inscriptions deepen our connection to the past, how do we ensure their survival?

Sites like the Working Face chamber in Rookery Mine provide invaluable glimpses into history. Yet, as I learned from my correspondence with archaeologist John Barnatt, these places are disappearing.

The inscriptions in Rookery Mine nearly disappeared a few years ago due to a well-intentioned but uninformed cleanup exercise. Luckily, the Derbyshire Conservation Officer of the time stepped in at the last minute to stop the activity and spread the word of the inscriptions’ importance.

There is limited protection for the Peak District National Park's cultural heritage. Less than 5% of the Peak District National Park’s cultural heritage has any form of statutory protection8.

‘There are no mines in the Peak District designated as Scheduled Monuments specifically for their underground archaeological interest,’ John explained.

‘However, sites scheduled for surface remains do by default protect the underground interest as the scheduled area legally extends to the centre of the earth. This is not ideal in that the underground interest sometimes extends beyond the area defined for the surface features. Also, underground explorers are often in blissful ignorance that the scheduled area extends underground.

‘Beyond the Peak District, there are a few sites designated for underground interest but these are normally for something exceptional; for example, the Palaeolithic interest at Creswell Crags and at Kent’s Cavern in Devon, and the Neolithic flint mines at Grimes Graves.’

Preservation depends on knowledgeable cavers and occasional collaboration with English Nature for now.

The best way to safeguard sites like these is through formal designation. By sharing their stories and advocating for their protection, we ensure the voices of the past are not lost.

If Working Face in Rookery Mine vanishes, how much history disappears with it? Who decides which stories are worth preserving? And what happens when we fail to protect them?

Perhaps this is precisely what Joseph Sheldon or whoever the author was intended — not just to honour their loved ones, but to ensure their sacrifices were never forgotten in a place that meant so much to them.

This month's hiking route is short and sweet but more than delivers on archaeological sites and scenic views. Situated at the far end of Stanage Edge by Dennis Knoll car park, this iconic escarpment's quieter part allows you to explore its heritage with relatively few others nearby.

Prehistoric carvings and Tudor structures

The Buckstone's name belies its peculiar history and somewhat baffling purpose. At first glance, you might assume the footholds are due to the well-worn tread of boulderers. The longer you gaze at the Buckstone, the more manufactured features jump out at you. I liken it to a Magic Eye image.

Rectangular nooks sit around head height, and smaller ones dot around the circumference of the Buckstone. A keen eye can also spot gullies carved above these sockets around the edges of the boulder. Smaller stones nestle around the periphery of the Buckstone as a raised bed, calling into question the rock's broader purpose.

Taking these features into account, it’s possible the Buckstone once supported structures for a homestead, watering hole, or even a beerhouse for travellers on the nearby packhorse routes.

However things take a more intriguing turn when you climb up the Buckstone.

As you climb up, a carving of a human, with fingers faintly visible, can be seen. Other features, like a faint rosette and cup marks and fittings for a handrail, are apparent. It's unclear why these carvings were made, or why the roof of Buckstone held such significance.

Buckstone can't promise to give you answers to its myriad purposes, but it offers a good spot for views and an opportunity to explore the history of Stanage Edge. If you'd like to learn more about the site, The Stanage and North Lees Heritage Action Group completed a research paper on the fieldwork of the Buckstone that's free to read online.

The Long Causeway

The route starts in prehistory, but as it moves up in elevation, we pass a millennium or so into the medieval period. The flat expanse of the summit of Stanage Edge features a medieval footpath eroded by hooves, cartwheels and footsteps for hundreds of years. The Long Causeway, as it is known, stretched from Hathersage to Sheffield. When you hike the route today, it's easy to see why the trail had a notorious reputation for its steepness.

In the distance, it's possible to see Stanage Pole, a trail marker in situ since 1550 to offer direction towards Sheffield. Imagine you're a merchant traversing The Long Causeway in winter. After withstanding boggy terrain, cold temperatures, and fierce winds against flat moors, having a beerhouse or shelter at the junction where The Buckstone sits would be a welcome reprieve for travellers.

Antiquated watering holes

Veering away from The Long Causeway the northernmost stretches of Stanage Edge invite you to slow down and meander. With panoramic views of Hathersage and nearby Hope Valley, it's easy to miss the archaeology literally under your feet.

Given the proximity of prehistoric and medieval heritage in Stanage, you'd be forgiven for assuming these carvings are ancient. They're fairly new in the grand scheme of human existence.

In 1907, Hallam Moor's owner, snuff manufacturer William Wilson, paid to have a series of watering holes carved into Stanage's upper rock faces to keep his grouse hydrated. To ensure Wilson didn't overpay for work he didn't brief out, each watering hole has a number assigned to it.

If you want a next-level geocaching challenge, try to find all the grouse drinking holes around Stanage Edge and the surrounding moor (hint: several are severely overgrown and remote).

Millstone frenzy

If the walk starts in prehistory, it seems fitting that it finishes in a more modern era. Descending from the top of Stanage Edge after summiting the nearby High Neb peak, you'll discover a proliferation of millstones. The Peak District's gritstone was vital in producing these wheel-shaped tools to grind grains across Europe. Stanage Edge was a massive source of quarrying material to create millstones.

Centuries of production were ground to a halt across the Peak District after the creation of millstones using French Burr stone. The quartz didn't discolour nor leave grit in the flour. It quickly became favoured for grinding grains over millstones.

Almost overnight, millstone production abruptly stopped. You can still see millstones abandoned halfway through creation along the route back to Dennis Knoll car park.

Next time you walk along Stanage Edge, take a moment to appreciate how its literal and metaphorical grit has shaped history. It's helped produce the food humans ate and provided raw materials for centuries for other uses. It provides shelter for travellers brave enough to traverse the Peak District's sometimes harsh and relentless conditions.

You can view the High Neb Short Loop route on OS maps and download the GPS file to guide you in the app. Do share your photos, comments and experiences of the trail with me. It’s great to see others discover and enjoy these sites!

Trail essentials

• Distance: 4.56 km

• Time: approx. 1.5 hours

• Terrain: track for the uphill and downhill sections to the summit of Stanage Edge, sandy/rocky terrain for the section to High Neb

• Parking: Dennis Knoll car park, £2.50 for 2 hours of parking. Pay using the RingGo app, cashless payment only

• Food: the nearest options are in Hathersage village, 2.1 miles away. You’re advised to pack your own food

• Toilet facilities: free toilets are available at Hollins Bank car park, 0.9 miles from Dennis Knoll car park

Fans of Outlander and folklore are in for a treat this month. My circular walk passes through two mystical stone circles and the atmospheric ritual site Stanton Moor, with multiple opportunities for pub stops along the route.

Sacred spaces and thin places

Anyone fascinated by folklore will probably have heard of “thin places”: locations where the physical and spiritual worlds feel closer together. Some believe these places enhance a connection to something greater, even the supernatural. Regardless of personal beliefs, it's undeniable that mysticism weaves through this route.

The first stone circle on the walk, Grey Ladies (Nine Stone Close Circle), is a perfect example. Once containing ten stones, today only four remain. Legends of the circle abound. Some say the stones dance at midnight and midday, while others claim strange lights can be seen twinkling in the woods next to the Grey Ladies at night.

Adding to its mystique, Nine Stones Close aligns with the midsummer moonset, which can be seen between the two boulders of Robin Hood’s Stride.

Today, these ancient rocks attract a different kind of worshipper: climbers. Robin Hood’s Stride and nearby Cratcliffe Rocks are among the Peak District's top bouldering and trad climbing destinations, drawing climbers from across the UK.

A hermit’s secrets

Just a few hundred metres from Nine Stone Close, the enigmatic Cratcliffe hermit cave appears prominently on the OS map. This medieval rock shelter features a crudely etched cross alongside grooves and sockets, hinting at a past religious life.

Finding the cave can feel like a pilgrimage unto itself; hidden behind trees and rock outcrops, it remains obscured from hikers on the nearby footpath.

While access is now restricted by a metal railing, it’s easy to imagine medieval seekers searching for solitude and spiritual enlightenment in these ancient rocks of Harthill Moor. This secluded space, like the stone circles, holds echoes of devotion.

Divine intervention with nature

Undeniably, the biggest draw on this trail is Stanton Moor. One of the Peak District’s most cherished landscapes, this ancient stretch of upland terrain holds four Bronze Age stone circles and over 70 prehistoric burial mounds. The sheer concentration of history has earned the entire moor status as a Scheduled Ancient Monument.

At its heart stands the iconic Nine Ladies Stone Circle, where legend tells of women turned to stone as punishment for dancing on the Sabbath. Nearby, other ancient markers scatter the moor, standing silent witness to centuries of ritual and reverence. On a clear day, the Peak District stretches out in breathtaking panoramas beyond the stones.

Today, Nine Ladies continues to draw visitors: new-age pagans, families, and hikers. Offerings of coins, food, or handicrafts rest on the stones, while notes and ribbons flutter on a nearby tree.

Little is known about the stone circle's purpose, but perhaps the mystery is part of the stone circle’s enduring allure. Whether seeking divine intervention, a sense of connection, or a moment of stillness, these thin places offer moments of reflection across millennia of history.

You can download the GPS file for the Nine Stone Circles Circuit and use the OS Maps app to follow the route on your phone. Share your photos, comments and experiences of the route with me, I love to see how others have enjoyed the hike!

This route incorporates two popular long-distance routes in the Peaks: The Limestone Way and The Old Stones Way. If you love history and wonky rocks I thoroughly recommend you hike these trails over a long weekend.

If you want more free hikes delivered to your inbox, consider subscribing to AmorExplore.

Subscribe now

Trail essentials

• Distance: 11.95 km

• Time: approx. 4 hours

• Terrain: short uphill sections, mostly trail with some sidewalk for the last few kms

• Parking: Coldwell End, Bakewell DE45 1UY. Technically free however I recommend a £3 donation

• Food: Two pubs on the route (The Druid’s Inn in Birchover and The Flying Childers in Stanton-on-the-Peak)

When I hike, I often imagine the stories beneath my feet. 'Who created this millstone?' I'll wonder as I hike past. 'Perhaps a Viking burial sits tucked under the roots of this oak tree,' I think as I stop for lunch. Did a Neolithic woman once pause for a breather beside these rock carvings?

These musings remind me that the landscapes we cherish are layered with stories. Our ability to connect with them shouldn't be taken for granted. That connection between nature, community, and our past hovers around our cognisance at sites of archaeological interest in the outdoors. It's an opportunity to transcend our daily humdrum and have a tangible experience with history in its rawest form.

I'm thankful I live somewhere with a rich archaeological heritage, like the United Kingdom; it was a surprise when I discovered people couldn't enjoy this experience at all historic sites outdoors.

A recent survey by campaigners Right to Roam has highlighted a troubling reality. In collaboration with their friends Stone Club, Right to Roam has found that the general public is blocked off from over 5,000 archaeological sites because they have no existing legal rights of way to them. Other outdoor groups (such as the CPRE) say the number is much higher as the survey excluded sites 20 metres from a road or footpath. For some, the right to explore pockets of their local history is closed off.

Banned from my back garden?

Alarmed that the heritage sites I cherish in the Peak District might be off-limits, I began my investigation. After scanning the interactive map of inaccessible scheduled monuments1, one heritage site immediately caught my eye.

Nestled between verdant hills overlooking the postcard-perfect village of Hathersage and the imposing shadow of Stanage Edge, North Lees Chapel's windowless stone frame beckons passersby. The ruins urge you to pause and appreciate the sweeping views of the Peak District.

I wandered off the footpath, trespassing across a field to reach the chapel. Luckily the owners of the area had added signage to denote permissive access to the site. As Right to Roam explains2 trespassing is considered a civil offence, but you'll unlikely be taken to court. This monument sits in isolation, surrounded by a blanket of private fields.

The chapel isn’t just a pretty landmark, as I discovered in my searches to learn more about the chapel after my visit. Its story is tangled in centuries of history.

Derbyshire Council historical records3 suggest North Lees Chapel was built in 1685 as a Roman Catholic chapel, only to be destroyed a few years later during the Glorious Revolution. Other archival accounts claim the chapel predates the Reformation and fell into disrepair after 1590 when Richard Fenton, a persecuted Catholic and owner of the nearby North Lees Hall estate, retired.

From the chapel's vantage point, you can see North Lees Hall and its surrounding buildings. The tower house, shrouded in a patchwork of trees, peers out at you from small, stern windows like unblinking eyes. The scene is eerily haunting and captivating, a fitting backdrop for the Gothic tales I discovered had emerged from this area.

Gothic connections

It’s impossible to share the story of North Lees Hall without mentioning a particular family: the Eyres4.

Over the coming centuries, the Eyres gradually rose to prominence as overseers, looking after local land on behalf of remote gentry families. They also had a shrewd knack for marrying their sons to heiresses with estates.

The family enjoyed a heady mixture of wealth, power, and influence, which made them a prominent target.

Following Henry VIII's split with the Catholic Church, the Eyres fell hard from grace. As staunch Catholics, they were labelled recusants and stripped of much of their land and power. The Eyres wouldn't reclaim residence in North Lees Hall again until 1750.

By the early 1800s, Gothic fiction and landscapes gripped the Victorian imagination. In 1845, Charlotte Brontë visited North Lees Hall while staying with a school friend in Hathersage.

Bronte was struck by North Lees Hall's battlement-style architecture and moody atmosphere to such an extent it served as inspiration for Thornfield Hall in Jane Eyre:

“I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning; the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion. It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, though considerable: a gentleman’s manor-house, not a nobleman’s seat: battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look.”

I’ve read Jane Eyre several times but it’s only now, having visited North Lees Chapel and wandered the surrounding hills endlessly, that I realise it's the pivotal setting in the book.

Inaccessible heritage in its broader context

As the saying goes, "No man is an island." The same applies to archaeological sites. There's a reason archaeologists record detailed records of the soil, artefacts, environmental context, surrounding landscape, and more when excavating a site. Viewing a site in isolation offers only a partial story; placing it in its broader context enriches our understanding.

The same applies to my exploration of North Lees Chapel. Seeing the ruins within their historical and geographical setting deepened my appreciation for their significance. What I had once dismissed as the scenic remnants of a chapel turned out to be a focal point in a tapestry of Gothic literature, Catholic recusancy, and local history that has impacted people worldwide.

While I was fortunate to find the chapel’s owners had installed permissive access, this is not the case across all 5,000 inaccessible monuments. Permissive access is not permanent and can be revoked at any point, such as a change in ownership. An example of this is the case of Alexander Darwall in Dartmoor National Park. After acquiring the 4,000-acre Blachford Estate, he took legal action to restrict wild camping and even picnicking. His goal? To replace the long-enjoyed public rights with exclusive uses such as pheasant shoots, deerstalking, and holiday rentals.

Blocking access to such sites diminishes our ability to connect with the past. These places are more than relics. They are threads that tie us to our ancestors, our communities, and the landscapes we inhabit. Interacting with local heritage shouldn’t be the preserve of a wealthy few. Preventing public access only exacerbates the challenges people face in engaging with their local heritage.

A call to action

What else might we uncover if we could freely explore these off-limit sites? What stories remain untold, locked away behind legal boundaries?

If we value our shared history, we must ensure it remains accessible to everyone. People shouldn’t have to trespass and risk civil offence to see their local history. Supporting campaigns like Right to Roam for greater access to heritage sites isn’t just about protecting history; it’s about preserving our connection to the places that shaped us.

What can you do?

If you want to learn more about inaccessible heritage near you, there are a few options:

1. Check for permissive access

The owners of some sites will provide special permission for people to access them.

2. Join or contact your local heritage societies.

These groups are a fountain of knowledge and can help support your search for learning more about the heritage sites near you. The Council for British Archaeology has a variety of local groups you can become a member.

3. Take photos and share your findings online.

Groups like Historic England invite user contributions, including photos and comments, to its digital records of historic sites. You can even report an issue with a site if it has been damaged recently.

Please share your explorations of any inaccessible monuments with me via the comments section below. I'd love to hear of any local stories you've learned or surprising histories you've uncovered that have given you a new perspective of your local area.

If you enjoyed today’s post, consider subscribing to AmorExplore. Each fortnight you will receive a free walking route, feature, or insight into the wild reaches of nature, archaeology, and adventure sports.

Subscribe now