The woods that run down off Wincle Minn form one of the most wildlife-rich, if unwelcoming, places I know in the Peak District. From the north-south oriented ridge (the Minn) descend 10 nameless brooks that all trend south-eastwards. These have incised a long, rippling hem of steep-sided gullies, clothed in a mix of oak, ash, alder, birch and hazel.
Its underlying sand and mudstones break down to fine clay and all the surrounding pasture is marshy, while the footpaths are seldom less than silver streams of mud soup. The woods are grazed by cattle, which have poached the underlying leaf litter to mire. Walking on the gully sides, which are all finely greased, carries obvious risk, but even standing still doesn’t look straightforward. The ground is so aqueous and loose that even tree roots can’t gain full purchase, and I have never known an English place with so many fallen trees.
