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The Churnet Way: a ribbon of water

I drove across the Staffordshire Moorlands on the A52, the morning open around me. The Sunday Service was on the radio, and my heart sang along with the BBC Singers, who were celebrating their 100th anniversary.


The road plunged downhill to Froghall and I cut off the service in the middle of the Lord's Prayer (oops. sorry, Lord) as I arrived at Froghall Wharf car park.

old lime kilns at Froghall Wharf

It was a cold and breezeless morning. I set off along the Caldon Canal towpath, crossing a lock and passing a tunnel which looked like an awfully tight squeeze for any boat.



A metal fence, expanses of cracked concrete, and some crumbling brick buildings were all that remained of what must have been a large factory alongside the canal. A metal pipe drooped forlornly, its broken end gaping. A cheery mouse brightened up one old building.


I reached the final corner of the fence, and the industrial landscape dropped away behind me. The canal narrowed to a thin ribbon of water. It seemed hardly credible that this was once the equivalent of a main road, crammed with bargeloads of stone. 



 

To my right, trees climbed up a slope. To my left, the hillside dropped down to the railway track and then the Churnet River. The woods on the opposite side of the valley had their own little clouds tucked among the trees. Everything was still and damp. It felt prehistoric.


I was pulled back to at least the 19th century by the Crossover Bridge, constructed when the railway was built, and made out of spare bits of rail. Further along was another lock, and a blue boat in a beautiful mooring.



The canal and railway ran side by side for this last little bit. Then I crossed a bridge over both and headed uphill into Consall Nature Park. Trees flourished in all directions, and there was a constant noise of water from the streams which had carved deep gullies through the woods.



I climbed a muddy path and suddenly emerged into open fields. The trees, which had seemed never-ending down in the valley, were suddenly revealed to be a thin strip in an arable landscape.



Alternating between road and footpath, I walked into Kingsley. At St Werburgh's church, worshippers were arriving for the 11am service, and I hesitated awkwardly outside, trying to find a moment to take a photo. I've been reading some of The Language of Stone blog, so I looked more carefully at the construction of the church than I might usually have done. That was odd. The tower seemed older than the nave - could that be right? A sign by the war memorial solved the puzzle; the tower dates to the 13th or 14th centuries, and the nave was rebuilt in 1820.



 The next field contained cows, a car tipped on its side, and an obscene amount of mud. I was afraid that one wrong step would see me up to my ankles, and stuck. Whatever path I should have been aiming for had disappeared into barbed wire and brambles, so I headed for the closest piece of solid land, squeezed through a wire fence, and finally emerged onto a road.


After all that, this mud seemed tame by comparison! Soon I was at Whiston Bridge, and following the last part of my previous route back to Froghall Wharf. 

It was just after 11:30 - perfect timing for a coffee and cake at Hetty's Tea Rooms. I picked a slice of sticky toffee traybake from the large selection of cakes, and sat down at a tiled table outside. A robin came and perched almost close enough to touch. I was enchanted. This just became my new favourite spot.



 

Froghall Wharf - Consall Forge 7.5 miles / 12.2 km

13 October 2024



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