Would we manage to get out, no problem. The weather was fine, sunny even, so it was that the crafty Cockney said "Righto mate, fifteen minutes." Denis had said he was going to Beeley Moor, a favourite place of his and we would be going with him. A lot can happen in fifteen minutes, you can boil three and three quarter eggs or you can get soaked. We dried off in the car.

Beeley Moor is a wonderful place to go just to take in the views. Way into the distance maybe some eighteen miles you can see the Hope Valley. The sun was edging the tops of the distant hills with it's own brand of gilded gold in a vista that seemed to go on forever. My what a beautiful county!

The rain that had hit Matlock hadn't touched Beeley Moor. The sun was shining but in the distance loomed dark clouds heading our way. Beeley Moor is not a good place to get caught in the rain not many shops open here on Saturdays basically because there are no shops. Even the ice cream man, a stalwart who usually makes it no matter how cold, has decided to give it a miss. So do we.

We head into the valley bottom and towards Beeley. On the way we saw Maggie, a friend of ours, who usually walks her dog around Matlock but there it was in the back of her car, taken there because she said "It wanted a change." The dog knew he was onto a good thing, I am sure I saw him pawing through a holiday brochure.

Further down the road a walker flagged us down frantically. With a worried look he asked us where Beeley was. He had just walked up the hill from Beeley but he wanted to know if the corner where the ice cream man usually is was further up the road. Yes, it was but there was no chance of an ice cream. That didn't bother him it's just that that was where he had left his car and he was totally lost.

We pass through Beeley, or side step it and cross the Derwent over the single track bridge and into Chatsworth Park. The house looking as stately as a stately house should. To our left and off the beaten track is the beautiful hamlet of Calton Lees, home in 1829, to Hugh TRAVIS and William STEPHENS. Mr Travis was a farmer there and William manicured the woods for the Duke of Devonshire.

Edensor is the next village we pass through with its houses all differing in style. It's a tight knit little place, almost just a cul-de-sac, which, in 1835 housed three tailors. Jarvis and John BAMPTON and Thomas MOSLEY supplying the sartorial elegance and James PLEASANCE the shoes.

We know arrived at the West End. Being a Cockney that was no problem for Den. Having dropped us of the Cockney sparrow with the wings of an eagle flew back to Matlock. West End, Baslow is over the river from Bridge End, Nether End and Over End. Before it all ends in tears we set off up Bubnell Lane.

Bubnell is bounded one side with the river Derwent. As we walk up the lane the old houses appear, Bubnell Hall, Bubnell Farm and other houses been here centuries it would seem. Bubnell was the home to many FROGGATT families, a name well known in this area. In 1692, Robert BIRKET made the short journey from Edensor to marry at Baslow Dorothy FROGGATT. Two years earlier Dorothy, the daughter of James KITCHIN of Bubnell, married Sheffielder William OSBOURNE.

Looking over the river, between the gaps in the houses,] on the Baslow side, one sees the ever running enscarpments that make up the Edges in this area, stunning outcrops of rocks. Baslow Edge, Curbar Edge and Froggatt Edge visited by thousands yearly.

The lane now has no houses just walls clothed in a snooker table green. So much so that it looks as if the whole wall has disappeared under a cloth of soft green velvet. The road is a little muddy but we carry on, turn the corner and standing high on the hillside is Bramley Farm. An impressive building all on its own. William SMITH came from Ashover in 1666 to marry Jane HARRISONhere at Baslow. She was from Bramley.

As early as 1604 Bramley girls were attracting men from far and wide, the apple of many a man's eye. Robert EYRE, from Hope, was one marrying Ann ELLIOTT that year. The number of names of people from Bramley in the Baslow registers would seem to indicate that in times past the place was bigger than now.

The road past Bramley Farm is steep and will not take us where we want to go. We turn back passing a stone filled trough overflowing with water running down the hillside. Bramley Dale is an unknown little dale that sadly has no rights of way. Maybe it should stay that way!

Rather than totally retrace our steps we take the fields to Calver.

We could see Calver in the distance, it was just a matter of crossing the fields. The water gushing over the stone trough should have been an indication where the water was going to. Everything was all right until we had passed the midway point of the first field, it sort of sucked you in. Sink or swim came to mind. We tried to stand on the biggest clump of grass above water level, when we did it promptly scuttled away like an octopus. This was more like the river Wild. Ever adventurous, or mad, we finally got through the bog.

We were now greeted with a lane alongside the river. Slightly higher than the field we had just treked through we felt this would have to be easier. The mud made sure progress would be slow, very slow. I turned round and saw Patricia, looking for all the world like Margot Leadbetter in Tom Goods allotment. I shouted back to her to make sure she had two boots on her feet. We half expected to see a group of wallowing hippos. The perfect environment for them here. It was a long slog.

Just before leaving the lane, the river Derwent makes a large bend, the water here is very still, the banks steep, the track treacherous. If someone going home late is going to fall into the river this un-protected spot is it. Maybe it was here Gilbert BARKER met his end, he was buried in September 1634 having been found drowned in the Derwent. On this same corner, on the bank side above the lane, are masses of bluebells waiting for spring.

We climb over the last stile and into another field, this time we feel a bit drier, the land not so soggy. We can see our knees now when we walk. As if to emphasize this fact a mole pops up and takes of his wet suit.

We take a left turn and enter into a cul-de-sac; here a large building has been tastefully converted into a house. It is called the Old Corn Mill. In 1829, John KITCHEN, was the miller and he would have been pleased to see his old workplace.

We come out onto the main road to Stoney Middleton, with Newborough Terrace, six houses stretching out opposite. You could be forgiven for thinking you are in Calver village but, not so, the village lies tucked away from the main road. I have never been to Calver but Patricia was at one time going to move here so she knows it.

Amazingly it has changed, she doesn't recognize any of it. All she could remember was a stream at the bottom of the garden of the house where she was going to live. They all seem to have streams at the bottom of the garden. Cleverly they have been diverted and converted into ponds with free flowing water into the next garden stream-cum-pond. Very effective.

Around the corner the Primitive Methodist Chapel bears the date 1860 and an invitation to come and "fight the flab".

Up the road a house hosts the name "The Old Bulls Head"; once run by Richard FROST, in 1835. Other such establishments back in 1835 included the "Star" kept by William MARSDEN, Sam GLOSSOP's "Pack Horse" and Matthew FROST looked after the "Eyre Arms".

To keep the wagons rolling John SOMERSET was your local wheelwright and John MOSELEY was blacksmith. A Matthew FROST was also blacksmith but I can't tell if it's the publican with two jobs or maybe they were all at it? A Richard FROST kept a shop and William MARSDEN was a grocer and tea dealer. Joseph SYKES and Bob COCKER kept your feet shod. There is still a house called Sykes House in the village today.

Curbar View Farm looks out to the edge bearing its name. Tiny white specks are grazing just below the craggy face where an enclosed wall runs right up to the limit of its base in a twisting snake like way.

In the center of the village a lamp post tells us it was there for the Coronation of Victoria, as, no doubt, were the slate and moss covered roofs of this well kept village. What is about to go is the Post Office, up for sale. I check my change, do I really want to buy a Post Office? I will have to think about it and put the four pence back in my pocket.

Above the houses on a hill a tall grey building stands proudly against the skyline. It is very distinctive and its architecture is totally different from the rest of the village.

We walk up Lowside, past Shippon Lane and arrive at the back of the "Derwentwater Arms", tucked away from this side of the village but seen from all angles from elsewhere. We leave the village and retrace our steps to the main road. I ask Patricia to describe Calver, she replied with all the streams, moss and ponds and mud it was like living in a swamp.

We cross the main road and Patricia spies a craft shop. Before I can divert her attention to the manhole cover made in Stockport we are inside. It's a pleasing shop, with an old black leaded oven hidden away from among all the art work. Patricia fails to see it only looking at the "pretty things".

This is going to be a disaster. There are lots of pretty things and only one wallet. I should have put a deposit on the Post Office. I need help. Just then the phone rings the crafty Cockney has come to the rescue. He half expects us the be at Edensor so is surprised when we tell him where we are.

I go outside and carry on the conversation, a subtle move brilliantly executed. Patricia follows later wondering where I am. The ruse works, slowly we walk towards Baslow