Bakewell to Melbourne

July 19, 2017 Margie Comments 0 Comment

You meet all types while on the road. Some inspire you. Some don’t.

We eat breakfast this morning with a couple who live only 30 minutes up the road. They’ve been given a night at the B&B as a gift. We chat about travel, and how they’ve been to Australia, but wouldn’t go again.

“We’re too old now for adventure,” says she, who is probably less than ten years older than me. I gamely keep eating my vegetarian sausage and nod and smile. Push me off a cliff now if that’s where I’m headed.

A few kilometres from Bakewell, as we crawl our way up another of the many hills that lie between us and the bottom edge of the Peak District, we run into a couple of older gents, out for a morning cycle. By older, I mean at least twenty years older than us. One is riding an old steel road bike, wearing plain leather shoes and pushing flat pedals; the other is riding a flat-bar.

We stop and chat, and ask how far they’ve ridden.

“Oh, about sixty miles.”

For those that don’t speak Imperial, sixty miles is one hundred kilometres. It is only 11am.

Six years ago Neil and I did a cycle trip in France, and heard about a couple in their seventies who were riding over the Pyrenees from France into Spain. That’s who I want to be. That’s what inspires me.

We go up and over many short, sharp hills as we make our way out of the Peak District. We’ve only covered one tiny corner of this part of England, but that’s how cycle touring is. We spend less time visiting tourist spots and more time absorbing the countryside. And, it seems in this country, climbing bloody hills.

The weather is not as pleasant as yesterday – a grey sky day – which makes “one of the best view in the Peak District” appear a little suboptimal when we stop to admire.

view of peak district — “One of the best views in the Peak District”

We’ve brought a Bakewell Pudding along for a snack today, and stop to eat it in the small village of Hognaston, after we are done with the hills. The pudding is just like a large basin of pastry, with some jam and an almond paste filling tipped in. Right up Neil’s alley.

Fully sugared up after our snack, we shoot into and through Derby. There’s not a lot to see here, but we do walk our bikes through the town centre, and take in the huge cathedral which is undergoing renovation and covered with scaffolding.

On our way out of Derby, another car has a go at Neil, with the same left-turn trick. This one misses, but from where I watch, a few metres back, it strikes me that the car has had to go out of its way to get around him to turn, and yet the driver still did not see him?

Having had enough of cities and busy roads, we are relieved to find a bike path along a canal that leads directly to Melbourne. This is a peaceful path and we mostly have it to ourselves, with just a few other cyclists and dog walkers.

bridge on the canal path to melbourne — Bridge on the canal path to Melbourne

We have to climb up from the canal into the village to reach Harpur’s of Melbourne, tonight’s destination. Harpur’s has a pleasant courtyard area, and we have a beer there before doing anything else. There are plenty of locals coming and going; the upmarket pub seems to be a bit of a social hub.

This Melbourne doesn’t look a lot like my Melbourne (Victoria, Australia). It is a smaller village, of around 5,000 people. Many residents commute to Derby, only about 13km away, and enjoy the village life out of work hours.

My Melbourne takes its name indirectly from this Melbourne. Melbourne Hall, a stately home that still stands here, was the seat (principal residence) of William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne, otherwise addressed as Lord Melbourne.

Lord Melbourne served as Prime Minister during Queen Victoria’s early reign, and was her political mentor. My Melbourne was named in his honour, by the then Governor of New South Wales, Sir Richard Bourke.

We walk around town before our semi-posh dinner at Harpur’s, and take a look at Melbourne Hall. The Hall and its gardens are open at certain times of the year for visitors, but not in July, and certainly not at 7pm. We have to content ourselves with peering through the fence.