Macclesfield Forest
There was no warm embrace from nature’s gloominess waiting for us. We were heading for the coldest few months of the year but at certain points you’ve just got to get out and escape. Escape the post Christmas drudge and attempt to clear the lint gathered around your thoughts. The lint can at times stick to your dreams rendering them unworkable. Dreams have to be workable, they're never perfect to start with, otherwise what you want wouldn't ever be worth the effort. They would seem child’s play and basic. That isn't what life is about. The new year is a perfect time to reassess what you did last year and try to do better. Maybe you didn't lose the weight you wanted, go where you wanted or just didn't see who you wanted. A good trudge through a forest is the perfect time to have these thoughts and allow them to gain entrée to your new year thoughts.
Packing our car with the essentials for any good hike, (more of this later), we felt good. More than good actually, excited and confident of a fulfilling days hiking. We have those days don’t we, where even though a January drizzle is soaking you as you leave your house and jump into the car, it just feels right. We were off on an adventure. Macclesfield Forest was going to be our destination and forests, trees, cloughs, trails and lakes were all awaiting us. Or so we hoped…
The drive to Macclesfield Forest from our base near the heart of the National Forest is mostly made up of tedium, tarmac and traffic. We get through Stoke-on-Trent as quick as we can and travel up the M6 for a couple of junctions until our departure from the black runway north. Motorways really are the soulless entities we need them to be, but sometimes they serve their purpose. The journey was certainly not part of the adventure so far. The roads improved though, as we neared the forest. The trees multiplied around each turn. Soon it was as if we were driving into a green envelope containing lush, wet woodlands and mosses. The loose stone walls lining the lanes dripping with rainwater as if baptising the greenery all around us. The leaves provided plenty of cover still, on the road, as it was mainly pine trees above our heads. Lofty and stretching up towards the bright, grey sky as if trying to punch a hole in it. Desperately looking for a bit of sunlight. At one point the road switched left and right, slaloming through a tiny hamlet made up of stone cottages and farm yards with golden hay erupting from the stable doors like a gold vault spilling over with its riches. Streams made their way down the hillsides and small humped bridges crossed them, meaning we were the only living creatures avoiding the clear, fresh water proving life to so much around us. Should we have stopped to pay our respects to the water? Should we have filled our bottles up with the purest water around for miles? Possibly so, but in our hurry to reach the heart of the forest we flew past it like a bird would dismiss a fruitless tree. Maybe I will stop next time.
We got to the Trentabank Car Park and found a small gravel parking space. A waft of salty air met us when we got out the car as the hikers were using the local cafe based next to a log cabin visitor centre and toilets. The smell of bacon sandwiches and strong instant coffee filled the air, drawing a small number of mountain bikers to the vendor, who was selling his food from a white van with a ironic name, which has unfortunately escaped me. Our backpacks were pulled on, containing our waterproofs, sandwiches and a small stove for tea. Our enamel mugs got clipped to the outside of the backpack and I shoved a fruity flapjack into the side pocket. With a clank from our cups and a tighten of our boots we set off. The drizzle had stopped and the sky was actually a little brighter at this point. Our inquisitive minds were leading the way as we left the car park and made our way up a stoney trail. After a few turns in the path we went through a gate and steeply climbed a narrow path. We had already climbed a fair amount and distant, hazy vistas started coming into view. The ground was wet but firm. The grass was dripping with cold dew, beading off the blades like resin dripping from a brush onto the ground. Our boots had already darkened with the moisture from the air, getting heavier with each step into the heavens.
Moss clung to the walls around the paths like hanging blankets left out too long to dry and the rains came and saturated them. They looked like they’d weigh a ton but when we compressed them with our palms our hands got enveloped in the green sponge and water oozed out between our fingers and ran down our sleeve. We learnt not to do that too often as it was icy cold! A path darted off to the right, signposted to Shuttingsloe, but our route was to the left and into the trees. The path was now lined with tall, dominating pines on the left and shorter, less organised broadleaf species on the right. The path cut through the woods like a knife being driven through jelly. The air was heavy but calm. The trees acted like frames for a hundred different paintings, all of a valley floor, cleared of trees with a snake like path winding its way along the floor. The bottom of the dell was lighter in colour, yellow almost. From our airy vantage point, it all but looked dry, and if it wasn't for the patches of lushness or the sound of distant water our minds would have been hood-winked. Nature can offer a degree of flimflam from time to time, that is what makes it compelling.
We stopped amongst the trees, as our climb looked almost over, and found some fallen trees to rest on. The tea was made and steam filled the forest adding to the increasing moisture we were swimming through. We enjoyed sitting with a canopy above our heads, eating our sandwiches and warming up with a mug of hot tea. Some horse trekkers past by us without noticing we were there, and other hikers walked by without seeing the two ambling ramblers resting in amongst the tree trunks and shadows. We felt like the trees were our great hosts. We said our goodbyes and moseyed back towards the trail to continue our saunter.
The path in front of us widened until it reached its climax at a small car park. Beyond the car park we walked into the woods. The trees here were shorter and younger. Their bark wasn’t as gnarled with years of weathering and abuse. This wooded area was fleeting and we soon found ourselves on a narrow lane with high hedges. The air up there was bitter and we would later find this was the highest elevation we would climb to during the day. Our faces were red and our fingers began to feel the cold so we stopped here to sip on some warming fruit gin in an attempt to warm our insides. The sloe gin instantly rejuvenated us and as we felt the nectar easing inside us, it spurred us forwards towards a nearby village. The village is called Macclesfield Forest so it really doesn't have a name. It is set amongst the rolling hills on the western fringes of the Peak District, with the jagged edges of the forest clipping the hem of buildings. We turned right just before St Stephens Church and walked up a rough bridleway. The ground underfoot was uneven, eroded by the constant flow of water cascading down the narrow, walled lane. Large rocks had been dislodged and moved beneath our boots, as we scrambled up towards a tree line. The village was disappearing behind us into a clough, like a sinking ship in giant, slow rolling green waves.
The woods were in front of us and it was as if we were drawn into them. The green mossy bases acted like beacons, guiding us along our path deeper and deeper into the trees. The ground quickly changed from moist, green ground to a brown, more arid soil. The trail undulated through the trees as they towered above us. The air was soothing and there wasn't a sound except our feet sinking into the beds of soft needles thrown across the floor. The smell of pine resin filled the air with a sweetness akin to toffee, which the trunks shared the colour of. The path started sloping down towards the forest basin, which we saw through the trunks at the foot of the Shuttingsloe path a few hours earlier. Towards the bottom of the downwards slope we came across an abandoned house. A small homemade plaque adorned its walls claiming it was the family home of a local war hero. What a place to have lived, slipping into memories these days. From here on our walk we could see the Trentabank Reservoir and the Ridgegate Reservoir. The water looked black and still, like tar. From this distance we couldn't see a ripple or any movement on the surface, making them look eerie and still. Our pace quickened as we gently walked downhill first on a stoney based trail and then along a quiet lane towards the water. We rounded the water and climbed for a short while amongst fruit trees and ferns. The car park was nearby so we could begin to reflect on our day of exploring. The forest had treated to a range of flavours; at times appearing cold and bleak, and yet moments where it felt comforting and reassuring. We love walking around forests and feeling close to the trees, hearing the brooks and waters flow after a rainfall and most of all feeling small. Forests have a habit of making you feel a part of them, but also make you feel that the trees are King. We should remember that more, we exist because they do. It’s always been that way.
If you're wanting to walk in this forest check out these links for more information…