Stoney Bottom

The veil of fog rose imperceptibly and shards of morning light stole into the village of Upper Dorling. It unmasked damp and ancient stone cottages. Recently carved Halloween pumpkins loitered unenthusiastically on dry-stone fences beneath wisps of hearth smoke meandering from blackened chimneys. It dispersed amongst stunning autumn foliage. The village was charmingly twee until 10am when the silence of the chilled air was assaulted by staccato peals of bell-ringing from the medieval church.

Ned and Ro Wasley, mid seventies were holidaying at a small B&B in Upper Dorling. They’d attended the village bonfire the previous evening and enjoyed mugs of steaming mulled wine as they watched the spectacle of the torch-lit procession. At Ro’s urging, they were inside St Matthews this morning to witness the bellringers in action. The Wasleys were the only audience. Six bellringers “jammed” for over an hour, working a difficult crowd. Firmly yanking on ropes, each ringer was seemingly in a personal headspace, changing patterns of rounds regularly. After an hour of non-stop rope tugging, and having been worked into less than a frenzy, the audience thanked the six bell ringers and exited. Ned was muttering, to nobody in particular, about being up to his armpits in culture and drowning.

Ambling by the village teashop, Ned was dog-whistled by an assortment of scones, jam and clotted cream. He succumbed, but ultimately paid his penance when Ro badgered him into undertaking a short hike. It led them away from the village across verdant pastures, through native forest with its carpet of yellow, russet and red foliage. With Ned complaining incessantly, they passed moss covered stone fences and inquisitive sheep.

Descending a steep, shaded section of track, the couple sighted a small village in the valley below. From a distance, it had an ethereal appearance and feel. Reaching the base of the hill, they clambered over a stile, onto a track leading to a stone bridge, and hiked into the village they’d observed from higher up. A moss-covered sign indicated they’d stumbled into the tiny village of Stoney Bottom. No residents were on the street, and it was decidedly chillier in Stoney Bottom than the village they’d left earlier. Through a thin mist which pervaded the village, Ned quickly spotted the Slug and Lettuce Inn. A lunchtime chalkboard offered “Baked Country Fare” which promised to satisfy all victualling needs. The appetites and thirsts of two elderly hikers were now piqued and they optimistically entered the premises. The boisterously informative innkeeper served their pub lunches and regaled them with local lore. Being the only patrons, Ned and Ro were a captive audience for a second time today. After an hour of indelicate lunchtime stories about Stoney Bottom’s brush with Bubonic plague 350 years earlier, the Wasleys paid and departed, citing the need to return to their B&B before daylight faded.

Stepping from the publican’s conviviality and warm hearth, they located a circuitous right-of-way through farmlands leading in the general direction of Upper Dorling and their B&B. However, they faced a steep upward track for their return journey. Legging nimbly ahead, Ro was quickly leading by twenty lengths. Reaching the steepest section, the lead gradually became 200 lengths. The handicappers had deemed that Ned should carry a large cottage pie, side of roast vegetables, half of Ro’s pumpkin soup, and a pint of locally brewed bitter. It was no contest as Ro, a lightweight filly carrying only a half serving of soup and a sprig of parsley, broke from the field and bolted upwards to their village’s boundary stone. The views across the Derbyshire Dales were sensational, Ro later recounted. Citing oxygen deprivation, Ned’s only recollection was sucking for air.

Mrs Hebblethwaite, their B&B’s elderly owner, greeted them in the warmth of the coal-fire in her loungeroom upon their return. Proud of her chocolate box village, she was genuinely interested to hear of the Wasley’s day. Her brow furrowed as they related their hike down to Stoney Bottom, the late luncheon at the Slug and Lettuce, and the ear-bashing they’d received from mine host. Mrs Hebblethwaite’s eyes narrowed, and she assumed a pensive expression.

“Sorry, pets… not possible. I’ve lived here all my life,” her voice quavered. “The closest village to ours is 13 miles away. There’s no village at the bottom of our hill, and there’s definitely no Slug and Lettuce Inn. No…. there isn’t a village named Stoney Bottom in the whole of Derbyshire county. Centuries ago, there was a hamlet by that name down there but those poor folk were wiped out by the plague and their buildings were later razed to the ground to destroy plague bearing rats. No, you must be quite mistaken. Cup of tea anyone?”