We were at the bus stop at the bottom of the hill by 8.35 on Saturday morning, in boots and waterproof trousers, in bright sunshine. The forecast said rain after one. "It'll hold off till we're down," said Matt, who was wearing shorts.
Getting there
The local bus into town cost £2.40 each. At the Interchange we had twenty minutes, spent on a bench with the flask, and then we climbed to the front of the top deck of the Castleton bus like a pair of eight-year-olds. It takes about an hour and ten minutes: out through the suburbs, over the moor with cloud shadows sliding across the heather, down into Hathersage and along the valley through Hope. I have lived in Sheffield for nearly thirteen years and I still go quiet at the point where the road tips over the edge of the moor.
The £3 cap on single fares was still running, and the Castleton leg cost exactly that. All in, the day was £10.80 each: two local singles at £2.40 and two Castleton singles at £3. I know the title says "a bus fare" and that four is not one. The cap has been extended more than once, so I wouldn't promise it for next summer. The Fiesta stayed on the hill, which meant no petrol and no hunt for a parking space at the other end.
Up the steps
We got off at Castleton at 10.55 and were out of the village by eleven, up through fields to the foot of Mam Tor. The old road along the bottom has been shut since 1979 because the hill keeps moving, and the tarmac looks as though three people pulled it in different directions. Then come the stone steps, which go on for a good while. I counted to 140 and lost my place at the first rest.
The rain arrived at 12.35, as we reached the trig point at 517 metres. It came sideways. We stood there for the length of one photograph (Matt's face, my hood and about four metres of grey) and carried on along the ridge towards Hollins Cross, where the path crosses the saddle and there is a low wall to crouch behind. We ate there at 1.20 with our hoods up: cheese and Henderson's sandwiches, two boiled eggs each, and a last slab of Pauline's flapjack from the freezer, still frozen in the middle. Matt said it was character-building, which is what he says when he is cold and doesn't want to say so.
The path down was steep and the stone slabs shone like wet fish, so I held Matt's elbow most of the way. Below the cloud the rain stopped and the valley lit up green, which felt personal. The whole walk was 4.6 miles and took three hours and thirty-five minutes, a figure that includes the steps, the photograph and a minute spent looking at a sheep that looked back. We were in Castleton by 2.35.
The café we didn't go in
The café on the main street had steamed-up windows, a queue to the door and a smell of bacon that I am still thinking about. We had already eaten, the bus was at 4.35 and we'd agreed no spending, so we stood outside it for exactly the length of a decision and walked on. We sat on a bench by the stream instead. Matt took his boots off and I was asked not to look at his socks.
The bus back steamed up so much that the driver put the fan on full and everyone's hair went the same shape. I slept from Hope to somewhere past Hathersage and woke with the pattern of the window on my cheek. We were at the Interchange at 5.55 and home at 6.25, after the last climb up our own hill, which after Mam Tor felt like a personal insult. Pickle watched us come in from the back step like a cat who had been left in charge for ten hours.
With lunch from the cupboard, the whole day came to about £28 for the two of us. Matt said we should do the other side of the ridge in August. I said ask me when I can feel my knees.
