Limestone Way - Day 1

After a couple of weeks of well-earned rest following the Lyke Wake Walk and the completion of the Coast to Coast, I’ve finally laced up my boots again. This time, I’m heading down the Limestone Way, beginning in the ruggedly beautiful village of Castleton in the Peak District.

Between then and now, it’s been a welcome change of pace: a restful spell in Northumberland with extended family, a week in Dordogne with Janine, Sophie, and George soaking in the French countryside, and a return just in time to see Oasis’ final Manchester gig with my brother and Paula. From stone circles to rock legends.

We arrived in Castleton the day before, where I immediately noted a very respectable six pubs all within about 100 yards—excellent research fuel. But today, it was back to business (sort of): hiking boots on, bag packed light, and body still somewhat recovering from a post-Dordogne cold.

Starting Off: Castleton and Cave Dale

I didn’t rush. Checkout wasn’t until 11, and frankly, I wasn’t about to start sprinting my first day back on trail. From Castleton, the route ascends through Cave Dale, its steep limestone walls and rocky texture a stark contrast to the gentler rolling slopes of the Yorkshire Dales or even the Lake District. I snapped a photo looking back down the dale where Peveril Castle peeks proudly above the cliffs—a view well worth the huffing and puffing it took to get there.

It wasn’t long before my legs reminded me I’ve been a bit too proud of finishing the Coast to Coast. My “Game Day” fitness clearly hadn’t survived the French pastries. The ground was particularly rocky underfoot, a geology that’s very distinctive in this part of the country—less moss and more crunch. By the time I reached the top of Cave Dale, the path softened to grassy stretches shared with grazing sheep, and my legs began to remember their job.

I passed fewer and fewer people the higher I got. At one point I passed a birder adjusting his binoculars and asked if he’d seen much: “A few Wheatears and Tree Pipits,” he replied. I nodded like someone who knows the difference between a pipit and a pretzel.

There was a burst of butterflies along one section—later identified by my uncle as the European Peacock. Beautiful but apparently not rare. (I resisted asking about its wingspan... Monty Python fans, you know why.)

Bradwell Moor and the Gorges

At around the 2-mile mark, feeling like I was finally in rhythm, I decided to detour slightly to bag the trig point on Bradwell Moor. It only added a few hundred yards each way, but the panoramic views were stunning—definitely worth it.

The descent from there took me through a series of gorges and limestone valleys, complete with sheer rock faces and twisting, cinematic paths. Hay Dale, a National Nature Reserve, was a standout. I kept trying to capture it with panoramic shots, but there’s no lens that quite does it justice. It felt like something out of Tolkien’s playbook.

The Monks Dale Detour

Just as I was falling into a groove, the trail gave me a choice: continue on the official Limestone Way or veer into Monks Dale. Given the joy I’d had in the previous two dales, I figured—why not? The entrance suggested more scenic drama, and it technically ended in Millers Dale anyway, so what harm could it do?

Well. Monks Dale was... memorable. Much narrower, much denser with vegetation, and with footing that kept me guessing. You couldn’t see what your boot was going to land on until it made contact. Still, halfway through came another lovely limestone view, like nature offering a peace offering: “Sorry about that twisted ankle risk. Here, have a gorge.”

Eventually, I emerged into Millers Dale, and made a beeline for the Anglers Arms pub, where I was swiftly reunited with a pint of water and a delicious Brown Cow beer. It was 2pm and the question loomed: do I stop here and enjoy a second pint by the river, calling my ever-patient family taxi service from Hardington? Or do I press on for another 6 miles to Monyash, risking day-one overexertion?

If you’ve read this blog before, you probably know the answer.

The Final Push to Monyash

Topped up on iced water and semi-fueled by pride, I headed out once more. The trail was gentler now—working farmland, with a few rolling ascents and descents that my legs mostly tolerated. I passed a group all wearing identical gear, which from afar looked suspiciously like a stag do. Turned out to be a walking club. Never judge a book from 100 yards away.

Just before entering Monyash, I wandered through a lovely campsite about a quarter mile from the village center—and that’s when the best part of the day happened. Sophie and George ran across the field to greet me, beaming and full of stories. They’d walked from the village after stopping at a little farm ice cream shop. We strolled the last stretch together, and honestly, I couldn’t have imagined a better ending to Day 1.