Another trip into the southern Peak District brought me to the unlikely-sounding village of Flash. Not only does it not clean baths without scratching, nor act as saviour the universe, but it is the highest village in the UK, at a height of 1519ft (463m) above sea level. It also contains a very nice pub (The Knights’ Table aka Travellers’ Rest), which I visited twice that day, purely for medicinal reasons of course.
After a few hundred yards, I passed a smallholding with a selection of interesting derelict vehicles, including a large “fresh milk” trailer. I’m guessing that any remaining milk wouldn’t be very fresh by now.
The Pub Walks guidebook had me jumping invisible dotted lines with regularity. I’d only been walking for a few minutes and I was already in another county, and was heading for another. After a little confusion about directions, I eventually found myself on the Packhorse Bridge over the River Dane at Three Shire Heads.
Allegedly, this spot was once regularly used for illegal fist-fighting and cock-fighting. It was popular because it was accessible from several directions, and provided a quick exit for all concerned, should the Rozzers appear, to Staffordshire, Cheshire or Derbyshire—whichever worked out most appropriate at the time.
Armed with this nugget of information, the rest of the walk became more confusing with every turn. Was I now in Cheshire? Or had I gone back into Staffordshire? Where am I looking towards? Why has the soil gone red?
I carried on by the River Dane and trusted in the book’s directions, hoping that I would be sat near a suit of armour and a pint of Black Sheep before too long. As I neared the village (which is definitely in Staffordshire), after climbing a huge hill, I saw a promising sign in a nearby field.