Missed Day One in the Peak District? Find it here.
With anoraks wrapped tight against the beating rain, we stumbled along the footpaths to Castleton. This trip had been planned weeks in advance to celebrate Dr Yeap’s wedding – and foaming charcoal clouds weren’t going to stop us. 
Imagined heroics aside, however, the conditions weren’t too bad. The rain fell gently and the wind left us alone. Plus we were turbo-charged – our fuel stores overloaded by a round of Full English Breakfasts: baked beans, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, hash browns, toast, fried bread, a poached egg and a tomato.
Definitely more substantial than a croissant, and designed for situations such as this. Pretending that summer has arrived in spite of all the evidence…
Living in the south of France has damaged my judgment. My trousers are flimsy-thin (and designed – oh ho ho ho – to zip-transform into shorts if it gets too hot.) In contrast, my friends whip out gaiters, map protectors and waterproof trousers.
We squelch through the trees, under the gaze of baffled sheep. It’s a chance to catch up with news and forget about to-do lists and deadlines. Something feels so wholesome about this, something that wouldn’t be the same if it was a beautiful sunny day.
And then the delicious ache of tiredness, of mud-splashed clothes and damp hair that proclaim to the world – I have walked in the rain. I have DONE something today.
We get a warm welcome at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese Inn in spite of our dirt-soaked appearance. Most pubs in the Peak District tolerate, if not expect, bedraggled walkers in waterproofs, and relax dresscodes accordingly. This Castleton pub serves up a list of favourites: a Barnsley Chop, a Giant Yorkshire Pudding and a Black Pudding Pie. However, a Barnsley-bred member of our group comments that the pies “aren’t real. They’re stews with puff pastry on the top.” Other northerners agree.
Across the road lives a sweet shop straight from my childhood imagination, with jars of rainbow sweets stretching up to the ceiling and striped paper bags bursting with mint humbugs. Fudge slabs decorate the counter like bars of gold, made by hand at the Real Fudge Company next door.
But such sweet diversions can only last for so long; we must walk back. I take a final look at Castleton, its stone buildings and painted slate tiles fulfilling another Derbyshire tradition.
Our gang of plastic hoodies reassembles and we look up at the sky. Gritty clouds scrape over one another but the air stays dry.
As we return to the wilderness, I understand why this is called the Hope Valley.
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Read on for Day Three in the Peak District
