And at the south end of the village is the Trentham Gardens estate, with the church of St Mary and All Saints between the two. Founded in the 7th Century (though the earliest parts of the present building are some pillars of the Norman church), St Mary’s was originally part of the monastery on the site; its curacy was for a long time in the patronage of the Duke of Sutherland.
“Discovering” the church behind a large white marquee at the north end of the Estate on Saturday, Don had observed that it offered “’a fresh expression’ of church for individuals and families,” and that its main Easter service was at 9:30: not too early, but early enough to give us a decent chunk of the day afterwards. Parking in the village, he noted a handsome block of flats (“apartments”, probably) charmingly labelled “The Old Laundry House, 1834”.
The service was run by a silver-haired patrician-looking vicar rejoicing in the sonorous name, Nigel di Castiglione. He wore no robes, though, but a dark suit which, with his silver hair, and glasses, gave him the appearance of Don’s boyhood Welsh Baptist minister; and his personal style, and the style of the service generally, were more reminiscent of those un-ritualistic Baptist services, than of the Book of Common Prayer.
While Don was at worship, Margaret tried to get some breakfast coffee, but had to resort to instant in the room as the hotel hadn’t open up yet, and The Lounge in the square was still closed. Easter Day … not just our holiday!
While Don was at worship, Margaret tried to get some breakfast coffee, but had to resort to instant in the room as the hotel hadn’t open up yet, and The Lounge in the square was still closed. Easter Day … not just our holiday!
About 11 o’clock, we drove north towards Trentham again, but turned off to Barlaston, home of the Wedgwood Museum. The museum is a delight: well laid-out, interesting, informative, and full of beautiful works of art and of craft. An hour and a half later, we’d still only got round about a third of the exhibits; but we were hungry.Leaving the museum, we crossed the courtyard, passing the wall medallion and statue of Josiah Wedgwood himself, and found the
Ivy House Restaurant. The Visitor Centre is in an adjoining space in the same building, so after (late) lunch, we went through it and so into the Wedgwood Shop.Margaret already wanted some Wedgwood jewellery, and Don spotted some cuff-links in the display cabinet—though the designs were of ship’s anchors or a8th-century windjammers, rather than the classical-style scenes we both associate with Wedgwood pottery. Eventually they found a pair with a “Neptune” design, and Margaret meanwhile found a necklace and matching ear-rings which pleased her.
We got back to the museum about four-fifteen, with three quarters of an hour to see the remaining two thirds. It was a whirlwind dash!—and, as so often, we agreed that we must go back one day to see the stuff we
missed. In the end, we were last to leave the museum, partly because we were intercepted at the exit by the very nice young manager who was keen for us not to miss out on our Virtual Portrait Medallions. He led us through to a nearby cubicle where we had our photos taken, silhouette-style, and converted to, well, “virtual medallions”—our choice of background colour and frame. We were able to download them later from the museum’s web site.We chatted to the manager and staff for a few minutes, then left, taking with us a couple of entry forms for the (then) forthcoming Arts Prize. Our enthusiasm for the museum at that point was strong, but sad to say, we forgot to send in the forms; so we were delighted to hear on the news, a few weeks later, that the Wedgwood Museum had won the £100,000 prize, the UK’s largest, and was officially Britain’s Best Museum.
By 5:15, we were back in the car and heading for the Peak District, it being a pleasant, sunny afternoon. We took the A520 (the Leek Road), passing through Weston Cheney, Cheddleton, and Leek, having stopped briefly to admire the view at Wetley Rocks. Round about Leek, Margaret spotted that we were on the road to Flash, reputedly (according to our Dorling-Kindersley UK guide) the highest village in England, and possibly in the kingdom.
At Leek, therefore, we turned off onto the A53. Flash lay beyond a magnificent Pennine gritstone outcrop, The Roaches, west of the road. Near the crest of the road, we stopped by Stake Gutter Farm
(part of a British Army training establishment), and photographed the scarp ridge from there. Sadly, that meant pointing the camera westward, with The Roaches in the shadow, their outline mirroring that of the wintery trees along the roadside. Eastward, the slanting sunlight revealed a dry, bleak, and lonely moorland landscape beyond the farm.A little further north, along a lane
that turned off sharply to the left, lay Flash, its old reputation for coining (hence “flash money”) long outlived. The village is tiny, most of the populace living in the farms scattered about the neighbouring Pennine slopes and valleys. A few cottages cluster together on the hillside, past the village church and school, and overlooking the pub, the New Inn—highest pub in the United Kingdom.We parked across from the pub and
went in. It was cosily lit and well-patronised. Margaret asked for a coffee, and Don asked about local beers. The request for coffee caused a bit of a stir; the landlady wasn’t sure she had any milk (though fortunately, as it turned out, she did). The beer turned out to be Downpour from the Storm Brewing Company, established in 1998 in Macclesfield (like Flash, a Peaks town, but in Derbyshire rather than Staffordshire). Downpour is “A light golden bitter with a smooth fruity hop aroma achieved with subtle blending of Challenger and American Cluster hops”. It certainly went down well.
Outside again, the lane led westward out of the village and romantically into the sunset. We drove out that way rather than
the way we’d come, following a loop of country lanes through Quarnford and back, eventually, to the A53, which took us back south to Leek, the A520, Cheddleton, and, towards eight p.m., Stone and the hotel car park. We went for dinner close by, at the Crown of India restaurant (Indian, of course), and got back to the hotel about nine forty-five.(Later, we learned that Flash’s claim to be the highest village in Great Britain, recognised for some time by the Guinness Book of Records, was confirmed in 2007 by the Ordnance Survey, which measured the altitude of the highest houses in Flash and its only rival, Wanlockhead in Scotland. At 1519 feet, Flash was the higher of the two.)
To see all our photos for this day, visit here.
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