Heeeyho Readers! Nothing like a sunset to end the weekend.
“You going for smoked salmon?” asked the farmer as I prepared to leave.
“What?! What do you mean? You offering me salmon or what?” I was confused after his question and wondering…
“Noe, mate!” He laughed at such stupidity. “The peak you are going, for the sunset, it’s named smoked salmon.”
“Ahh! You mean Bamford Edge?”
The evening approached apace in a sky of fire. If I wanted to witness the show, I’d need to hop on the bicycle and rush to the Bamford Edge without inquiring my fellow host about the so-called smoked salmon. Who the hell would name a peak like that? Anyways.
Bamford Edge
Down the Hope Road I went, then took a left across Bamford (village) to finally cycle up the tenuous Ashopton Road and the excruciating New Road, where a trail leads to the peak’s top.
Bamford is a village in Derbyshire, England. The oldest recollection of the name appears in the Domesday Book. Banford, as it first appeared, most likely came from the Anglo-Saxon Bēamford, which translates to “tree-trunk ford” (I don’t think they had Fords back in 1086, so the meaning refers to a ford, in lowercases, which is a ‘shallow river’).
The path to conquering the Bamford Edge came in rugged and steepened the more I cycled. A lovely couple snacking mid-way through encouraged me as I cycled past them. Moorland to the right; Win Hill to the left. The trail around the edge greeted me with the best view of the Ladybower reservoir. No midges in sight to spoil the evening. The sun was about to paint the sky. Here’s where I messed real bad the camera settings; most of the photos turned out unusable.
The Bamford Edge is a 416-meter high peak graded as E8 7b (whatever that means). What I know is that people do climb those gritstone walls, and the mere idea sounded scary. I could hear the clanging of metal on rock from the climbers below me. I looked at my bicycle and patted myself for choosing a less frightening sport.
“Where, after all, shall we find Sunsets equal to British ones?”―John Howison, 1826.
Despite my messy handling of the camera, I sat there trying to contemplate as the ball of fire rolled down the horizon. Those were the last days on British soil, after cycling 3000 kilometers across Europe and five months of grinding resources. I was happy for who I am, for the privileges I've had. I felt energetic to be alive.
I descended back to Hope, to the farm where I was camping. A tornado ravaged the coast of France that night. I was caught with my trousers down in a three-day downpour. Whenever the rain traveled over me eastwards, the ever-changing wind would send the shower back. Madness, to say the least. With nothing else to do and incapable of scaping the valley to my next destination, I reserved to eating junk food and working on translation projects at the local cafe.
Next time, I'll go aimlessly across Birmingham in a series of canal paths, where I'll discover the coolest way of traveling around the UK. My final destination? A pub near the Brecon Beacons with drunks and other friendly fellas.
Did you know that I have a book out? Check this out!
Obs.: Paperback coming out this week.
Link to the book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09B4JQTS7
Link to the author's page: https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B09B4LQHM8
If you enjoyed this post consider leaving your upvote for a hot coffee.
Find me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/mrprofessor_
~Love ya all,
Disclaimer: The author of this post is a convict broke backpacker, who has travelled more than 10.000 km hitchhiking and more than 5.000 km cycling. Following him may cause severe problems of wanderlust and inquietud. You've been warned.
