A Little Known Range of Hills, an Errant Dog and a Famous, if Contentious, Hymn
Scaling the What?
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Staffordshire
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| East Staffordshire |
The Weaver Hills are not, it seems, well known. Typing ‘Weaver Hills’ into Google Maps leads you to Weaver Hills Drive in Aguanga, a tiny,
remote desert community in southern California. It is, arguably, even more
obscure than Staffordshire’s Weaver Hills.
Driving northeast from Uttoxeter and past the JCB works at Rocester brings you to Ellastone, where the map says there is a left turn to
Wootton, the village at the foot of the hills. Lee’s Satnav disagreed – indeed it
failed even to recognise Wootton’s existence.
Wootton and the Weaver Hills
Despite the suspicion that we had arrived in some sort of Staffordshire Triangle, the loose cluster of handsome stone buildings looked reassuringly
solid. The village even boasts two large country houses; we saw Wootton Lodge
at the end of the walk, but missed Wootton Hall, designed by Inigo Jones and
now owned by the Greenall brewing family. Jean-Jacques Rousseau lived there in
1776 and suffered a mental breakdown, which is what you get for living in a
mystic triangle.
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Walking through Wootton
l to r: Alison, Francis, Lee, Sue |
Nothing, of course, can be real unless it has a virtual existence. I am thus happy to report that both Wootton and the Weaver Hills
have Wikipedia entries. From the latter we learn that the Weavers are ‘considered
to be the most southerly peaks of the Pennines.’ Well, maybe.
Wikipedia also call them a ‘small range of hills.’ They looked large enough from where we stood, certainly larger than my
father-in-law, and if all seeing Google can spot him standing on his drive,. [Update 2022: Google maps now seem to recognise the Weaver Hills - and it is this blog that has made the difference (I claim, without evidence).]
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| The Weaver Hills, not huge, but difficult to miss |
We are Joined by an Uninvited Dog
On the edge of the village a spaniel (of sorts) came racing down a side-road to join us.
As we followed the lane towards the hills the dog came with us, frequently finding a way through the hedges to left and right, but always
returning to the lane, sometimes ahead of us, sometimes behind.
Beyond the cricket club we entered open country and it seemed wise to send the mutt home. Lee called the dog to him with a masterful voice. It ran over, lay at his feet and looked up for further instructions. ‘HOME!’ said Lee. The dog continued to look at him. ‘HOME!’ he repeated in a very
masterful voice while pointing towards the village. The dog remained unmoved.
Alison, who rarely talks in capital letters, grabbed its collar and found a phone number. She called the number but it did not exist. There was nothing else we could do, if
the dog wanted to come with us, then there was no way to stop it.
The Ascent
We made our way into the gap between the two main peaks.....
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| Into the gap between the two main peaks of the Weaver Hills |
....and at the highest point – calling it the ‘top of the pass’ seems too grand - we turned left and climbed up to the trig point.
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| On the summit of the Weaver Hills |
It had taken us 45 minutes from base camp to summit, which makes you wonder what they do all day on Everest. To be fair, the Weavers rise
to a dizzy 372 metres, 130m lower than Shutlingsloe (see Cowpat 5) – and that is only the third highest peak in Cheshire!
From the Summit to Hoften's Cross
On better days the view to the south and west would have been good, but it was a cool, misty morning and the clouds threatened rain. The
views to the northeast involved quarries, whatever the weather.
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| Wardlow Quarry from the top of the Weaver Hills |
We had ascended the steep south-western side, but to the north-east the land slopes very gently towards the Staffordshire Moorlands –
the Weavers are a one-sided range of hills.
We paused for coffee in the shelter of a limestone scar. The dog ran off and we thought we had seen the last of him, but as soon as we were back on our feet he was there, wagging his tail and eager to continue.
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| Towards Wardlow Quarry on the flatter side of the Weavers |
Round Wardlow Quarry
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Staffordshire
Moorlands |
The path round the back of Wardlow Quarry had little to recommend it. The dog found a half rotted piece of rabbit, or maybe a bird - it
was too decayed to be certain - and proceeded to eat it. Then it lay
in a puddle. Sue picked up a length of bailer twine in case the need arose to
put it on a lead.
Beyond the quarry we turned down a pleasanter valley and for a while the dog disappeared. It reappeared, shooting across our path in hot pursuit
of a panic stricken rabbit. That, we thought, might be the last we would see of
it, then we started to retrace our steps as we had taken the wrong path.
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| The wrong way down a pleasanter valley, near Wardlow Quarry |
The dog re-joined us on the right path as we made our way past a campsite where people were doggedly pitching tents and looking
forward to the dubious pleasures of a cool, damp bank holiday weekend. At one point the
aroma of frying bacon drifted across. It smelled good to me, and the dog
obviously agreed. We might have lost it at this point, but the campsite fence proved impenetrable.
Dealing with the Dog
It seemed a good idea to put the dog on the makeshift lead before we reached the B-road, but it ran ahead and crossed the road while we were talking about it. A
couple of hundred metres further would bring us to the A52, which is neither
big nor busy as A-roads go, but is still an A-road. Stopping well short of the
road Lee called the dog over and Sue slipped the nylon bailer twine through its
collar. Another look at the phone number suggested that Alison may have misread
a rather worn 6 as a 5, so she called again. This time the owner answered. He
had observed the dog chasing after us and had expected it to return,
but we were now so far away that seemed unlikely. We would next follow the main
road to Hoften’s Cross and the owner agreed to drive out and meet us there.
Fifteen minutes later we made the rendezvous. The owner thanked us, stuck his very wet and dirty dog in the boot and drove off. I speak
only for myself, but I was happy to see him go; I do not really like dogs, not even clean ones.
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| Millennium Garden, Hoften's Cross |
Hoften's Cross to Cotton
Leaving Hoften’s Cross (not a particularly attractive village, but at least it has kept its apostrophe) we passed a sawdust repository
(what does anyone do with all that sawdust?) and proceeded into open country.
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| Leaving Hoften's Cross |
We were now in pleasantly rolling countryside. A village nestled in the valley before us, the thin, elegant spire of its church sticking
out above the trees.
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| Down towards Cotton |
The Former Cotton College
When we reached the valley all was not as it had seemed. After passing a couple of stone houses we came to this sad sight.
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| The former Cotton College, Cotton |
Cotton Hall, I have since learned, was built in 1630. In 1873 a catholic boys’ boarding school moved here from Wolverhampton and changed its
name to Cotton College. The school occupied the site for 100 years, but the
time for such institutions passed and after struggling for some years it finally
closed in 1987. It is a shame that the building has been left to decay.
A few paces up the road, the parish church of St John the Baptist hides behind a hedge. The small, neat church was built in 1795, but it
obviously lacks the spire we had seen earlier.
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| St John the Baptist, Cotton |
Augustus Pugin, Frederick Faber and Faith of My Fathers
The spire belongs to St Wilfrid’s 50m further up the road. Before becoming a school Cotton Hall had been the home of Frederick Faber and the
religious community he founded. Faber had been an Anglican priest but followed
John Henry Newman in converting to Catholicism. Augustus Pugin designed St Wilfrid’s
Church which was built in 1846 soon after Faber moved in. The church became the chapel
of the college and stayed in use until 2010 when it was closed as the roof was
dangerous. Like Cotton Hall it is now rotting quietly.
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| The spire of St Wilfrid's, Cotton |
Faber was a prolific hymn writer and many of his hymns are still sung. The best known, Faith of our Fathers was written in Cotton and has two versions, one for Ireland (which
had never deserted catholicism) and one for England (which did). The third verse of the English version…
Faith of our fathers, Mary’s prayers
Shall win our country back to Thee;
And through the truth that comes from God,
England shall then indeed be free.
In the 1970s and 80s I taught in a catholic comprehensive school in Birmingham. The hymn, including the verse above, was regularly sung
at the end of term mass. My (overwhelmingly Irish) catholic colleagues used to earnestly
discuss whether it was appropriate for them to sing it. As a prod/agnostic (and
a Welsh one, to boot) I thought it best to keep my own council.
Lunch in Cotton
Most of the village of Cotton is a little further down the road. Unlike Cotton College, Faber (Voluntary Aided) Catholic Primary School
looked to be thriving. A little further on, at the crossroads, we reached Ye Olde (sic) Star Inn where we briefly paused.
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| Ye Olde Star Inn, Cotton |
Lunch at Ye Olde Star was accompanied by a couple of pints of Black Sheep which is always pleasing. Sue had a bowl of chips, a perverse choice
from someone who once came on a fish and chip walk and ate chicken and pasta.
From Cotton Back to Wootton, via Deer Parks and Large Houses
Lunch over, we had a moment of uncertainty outside the pub as none of the four roads led in the right direction. The fifth road, the one we
wanted, was hiding round the corner.
We soon found it and 500m later turned off across a patch of woodland......
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| ...across a patch of woodland... |
....to a gate in the deer fence surrounding Wootton Park. Most of the afternoon would be spent crossing classic English parkland.
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| Into Wootton Park |
Alton Towers
To our right we could see Alton Towers, or at least the former stately home of the Talbot
family, the largely forgotten part of the theme park. The wind was in the right
direction so we were spared the public address, the music and the screaming. I
have lived in Staffordshire for 20 years and have never been to Alton Towers -
and see no reason to change that.
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| Alton Towers across the valley |
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| East Staffordshire |
Leaving the parkland through woods, we joined a minor road which rounded a small lake before petering out beside a field of brassicas. Following
the field boundary took us to a stile into more woods and then to another minor
road.
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| ..a minor road rounded a small lake.... |
The sun had put in a late appearance and we followed the pleasantly shaded road – unaccountably known as Waste Lane - up through rocks and woodlands until a footpath sign directed
us to a crack in the wall.
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| ...a footpath sign directed us to a crack in the wall. |
Wootton Lodge and its Deer Park
Being well-nourished I found the space a touch small. We emerged onto what I at first thought was a golf course. The immaculate fairways
turned out to be the lawns of Wootton Lodge which was built in 1611, badly
knocked about in the civil war and restored in 1700. It is now owned by JC
Bamford who has, so far, resisted the temptation to paint it yellow.[Actually, JC Bamford died in 2001, the house is now owned by his son, Anthony Bamford].
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| Wootton Lodge |
We crossed Sir JCB’s lawn, disappeared into a small wood and re-emerged in his deer park. The grass here had been grazed rather than
manicured, but still looked better than my lawn.
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| A selection of JCB's deer |
Rather than attempt to find a tricky path through the wood we followed the estate road to the park entrance. After a breather we took a
we took a broad path through the woods, down to the road and back to Wootton.
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| Ripe Rowanberries in the day's final section of woodland |
Despite the dire weather forecast and the morning mistiness, the clouds threatening rain had failed to deliver and then gone off in a huff
leaving an afternoon of gentle warmth and even some sunshine. Amid signs that
autumn is not far away, we had made the best of a pleasant late summer’s day.
The Cowpats
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