It is these villages, rather than the sheep-flecked hillsides, that define the Peak District's character. Every village has to have something going on, and while all may be small-scale to the outsider, these objectively trifling events are leapt into with full-hearted, free-time devouring gusto. They proclaim the delights of the Froggatt Show, or the Longshaw sheepdog trials, or Proms In The Peak, or the Hope Valley Beer Festival.
But it's the blizzard of temporary signs and banners at the road's edge that capture the Peak District's busy-body energy. It's a place of mud-caked boots purposefully marching along squelchy farm paths, cyclists' lycra-clad thighs pumping up and down like industrial pistons, hang-gliders heroically charging off escarpments and rock monkeys nimbly adjusting karabinas as they shimmy up inland cliffs.ĭrive around the region and you may have to stop occasionally while a calf stops to suckle its mother in the middle of a country lane. It's the antithesis of swaying hammocks, geared almost entirely to restless souls who get fidgety after five minutes on a sun-lounger. People may come to the Peak District to get away from it all, but very few come to chill out. The sound of the trickling river should be harnessed for relaxation tapes, the rounded hills cartoonised for the setting of a TV programme designed to pacify three-year-olds. There's an unthreatening Englishness about Dovedale. The river Dove itself bubbles along with dainty gaiety and grey-haired ramblers revert to childish skipping across the stepping stones.
The hills bulging up around the valley are tuftily grassed and mothering, any harsh edges cuddled out by a soppy higher force. The genial harmlessness of his lollop is befitting the surroundings. He takes a look behind him, realises the leash is off and enthusiastically bounds into the river with a total absence of grace and decorum. The tubby black Labrador gamely struts along, his furiously wagging tail shaking his overfed body.
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