Woolly says – Jo was having a major dyslexic day having turned left instead of right and then right instead of left we found ourselves going round and round in circles in our bid to get to our first destination. Finally on the right road I looked at her in horror as we apparently passed Barn owl Community Centre, it wasn’t, it was Barlow and Ear Lane which was actually Far Lane, I held little hope for getting anywhere and wondered for the millionth time why I wasn’t allowed to drive. Using all of my skills in diplomacy to ensure she followed the sat nav I let out a huge sigh of relief as I spotted the brown tourism signs for our chosen place.
Treak Cliff Cavern has been under the ownership of the Harrison and Turner families for generations carrying on the tradition of Blue John mining and crafts which were established over 300 years ago. Blue John Stone is found nowhere else in the world except in the rocks of Treak Cliff Hill, Castleton, the mineral, a colour banded form of fluorspar, is said to be so beautiful that it has been prized for many hundreds of years. The origin of the name ‘Blue John’ is thought to have come from the French ‘bleu et jaune’, meaning ‘blue and yellow’. Another theory is that the name ‘Blue john’ was termed by 18th century miners to separate the blue / purple stone from Zinc Sulphites, known locally as ‘black jack’.
In the late 18th century, the mineral was much in demand for ornamental vases and columns created for some of the finest houses in Britain, most notably Chatsworth, home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, and Buckingham Palace. During the first world war, fluorspar was in great demand as a flux in blast furnaces, so Blue John (being a rare form of calcium fluorite) was mined only for this purpose. Commercial mining ceased in late 1926, as the then land owner, Colonel Broadbent, took steps to protect newly found cave passageways. Since 1945, only small amounts of Blue John have been mined out, around half a tonne a year, mainly for jewellery and small ornaments.
As we climbed towards the visitor centre, we paused to look at the grey and rather bleak surroundings, if only the sun was shining it would be a glorious view. Having checked in and received our guide book I led the way through a blue door and into a rather small tunnel, even by Jo’s standards although for a mammoth of my size it was an easy walk into the first cave in the hillside. Lines of blue ran through the rockface with small fossils embedded from millions of years ago, we were surrounded by Blue John.
Alfie the Dog led the way into the next chamber which had a small display of mined rock, this area is still mined today although usually in the winter season when there are few tourists to interrupt proceedings.
As we went deeper and deeper into the hillside the blue seemed to be even brighter and I started to understand why it was in such high demand. The next cave gave us a dome which had stalactites hanging from the ceilings, tens of thousands of years had passed since they had first started to form, in fact mammoths would have ruled the world when a few of them had begun life.
Seven small stalagmites known as the seven dwarves had started to change colour due to human contact and I decided to not add to this by merely looking and not touching. Fencing protected other mites and tites allowing them to continue growing.
Just as I was really starting to enjoy myself, we found ourselves at a doorway and back to the ever-present grey cloud, it seemed like only moments had passed since entering and we were all finished, less than an hour had passed on what I had thought would be the mornings activities.
We stood looking at the view as I wondered how to entertain him before deciding to continue straight to the next place and just spend more time there.
Woolly says – Having to agree with the human we set off to a town that apparently was full of tarts. I remember seeing tarts along the roadways in Germany many years ago and wondered if it would be a similar thing, I had felt sorry for these ladies having to spend their days waiting around and given the chill in the air in Derby they must be frozen.
As my small companion piped up asking if he could donate one of his scarves to the tarts, I realised that he had the wrong end of the stick, pulling his Mammoth Book of Facts out of the glove compartment I advised him to look up Bakewell.
Woolly says – Having found the right page I set about reading. Bakewell is a market town in the Derbyshire Dales district of Derbyshire and was probably founded in Anglo-Saxon times. The name Bakewell means a spring or stream of a woman named Badeca or Beadeca, so deriving from a personal name with the Old English suffix wella. In 949 it was called Badecanwelle and in the 1086 Domesday Book Badequelle. Bakewell, as it then became known is famous it’s for Bakewell pudding, a jam pastry with a filling enriched with egg and ground almond. Bakewell tart is a different confection, made with shortcrust pastry, an almond topping and a sponge and jam filling. The origins of these are not clear, but the popular story goes that the combination began by accident in 1820, when the landlady of the White Horse Inn (now the Rutland Arms Hotel) left instructions for her cook to make a jam tart with an egg and almond-paste pastry base. The cook, however, spread the eggs and almond paste on top of the jam instead of mixing them into the pastry. When cooked the jam rose through the paste. The result was successful enough for it to be a popular confection at the inn. Why had I never had one of these delicacies I asked. The reply was that almonds give Jo migraines and are best avoided but if I wanted to try one I could, I sat back looking forward to this treat.
The town was packed with cars and people everywhere, being a Saturday, we should have expected that but being us, we didn’t. With 183 listed buildings to look at we set off to navigate the tiny lanes, each one providing us with lovely cottages and homes in The Rutland Arms took centre stage at the town’s only roundabout as we took our lives in our hands and raced to cross the road into some small but beautiful gardens.
Standing high above the chimney pots was Bakewell Parish Church, a Grade I listed building dating from 920, we climbed the hill towards it and entered the graveyard only to find a large sign stating that no dogs are allowed, I looked at the panting beast and wondered if he would pass as a guinea pig but felt it was unlikely so unable to see anything at a closer proximity, we headed upwards to the Old House Museum.
The town’s Old House Museum occupies a 16th-century dwelling house originating from the time of Henry VIII and extended under Elizabeth I, it was owned by Sir Richard Arkwright founder of the modern factory system from 1777 and he converted it into smaller cottages to house his mill workers. It was a lovely building and as we stepped over the threshold we were warmly greeted and Alfie the Mutt admired. Through a doorway and into a fairly large room I admired the wattle and daub that had been uncovered in the last century along with the large stone fireplace.
Next door was a dairy with old churns and milking equipment which led us into what had once been the main area of living during the Tudor times, a huge fireplace took centre stage and was defiantly big enough to roast a hog or two. A kitchen led off with an unusual display of gingerbread moulds before we found ourselves in the cellar with a whole in the wall which had once been where the toileting proceeds had arrived.
Upstairs the uneven floor gave us display cases filled to overflowing with cameras, items from both of the world wars and all manner of other things in what had once been the bedrooms. Even better was the actual toilet which I took the opportunity to peer down before using and felt atingle of excitement if anyone was in the cellar and what might be coming towards them. Having been chastised by Jo, I followed her quietly into a small room which had been set up as a nursery with an exhibition of toys from decades ago.
Finally finding our way out we stood admiring the building that has seen so much in its time and wondering if anyone had realised how slanted the one window was. With the museum done it seemed like a good time to stop for refreshments and I couldn’t wait to finally try some Bakewell for myself. We found ourselves a dog friendly café and sat eagerly waiting to see what delights were on offer, much to my sorrow they had run out of Bakewell but the nice lady recommended a homity pie. ‘A what?’ I asked, the lady told me more. ‘Homity pie is a traditional British open vegetable pie. The pastry case contains a filling of potatoes and an onion and leek mixture, which is then covered with cheese’ she paused for breath ‘There is little known on the exact history of the dish. Some call it ‘Devon Pie’, believing it to be an English country recipe originating from Devon. Its origins are also claimed to date back to the Women’s Land Army of the Second World War and the restrictions imposed by wartime rationing. What is known however is that the dish’s mainstream popularity came from Cranks Vegetarian Restaurant, which opened in London in 1961’ she smiled down at me, ‘Would you like to try some?’ I would and I did and it was fantastic, Jo will now have to start making it at home and it will need to be to the same standard as the one I had just consumed.
With tummies full we carried on around the town continuing to admire the lovely brickwork of the buildings until finally finding our tart, I peered into the bakery window and considered my options, did I want the original Bakewell pudding or the hybrid Bakewell tart? Decision’s decisions, finally settling on a small pudding Jo kindly held it for me as we walked along the river Rye to find a place to test it out and watch the ducks and geese splashing around in the water, my first mouthful wasn’t too bad but then the almond taste took over and I found it a bit rich for my consumption and wondered if the ducks might like to help me finish it, I’d found my tart but it wasn’t the tart for me.
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