A Jaunt To The Peak District

In what I hope is slowly becoming an annual tradition, the girls and I headed off for a weekend in the countryside this month. Last year: Wales, this year: the Peak District.

We stayed in a little cottage a few miles outside of Glossop – a market town in Derbyshire approx. 20 miles from where yours truly was born. Our cottage was on a little farm; it had a roll top bath, spiral staircase and an old English sheepdog that was basically a teddy bear and who we 100% wanted to take home with us.

Four of us arrived mid-afternoon on Friday and after a nose around the house (my friends seemingly like to inspect every single drawer and cupboard), we headed into Glossop in search of a Friday-night drink. Surprisingly, we stumbled across a cocktail bar with 2-4-1 cocktails before 7pm so this seemed like the obvious choice and we spent an hour drinking pina coladas and strawberry daiquiris and probably discussing things one shouldn’t discuss in public. Meh.

We then took a trip to M&S whilst a tad tipsy. Claimed we only needed a ‘few snacks’ – spent 100 quid. Top work gals. After picking up the fifth member of the crew from Glossop train station, we headed back to the cottage to snack and drink gin before curling up with a cheese plates on the sofa in front of the fire. Living the dream tbh.

 After a healthy lie-in and lazy breakfast on Saturday morning, we decided to head back into Glossop for a mooch and ended up stumbling upon an artisan bakery/café – Glossop really did have it all. We had some divine sandwiches and coffees sat outside in the sunshine before a lovely little wander around the local market. Reader – we discovered the most epic cake stand. The cakes were huge and intense and goddam I wanted them all. So yeah we bought a slice of each. And what?

Flavours included terry’s chocolate orange, millionaire shortbread, cadbury’s crunchie, cherry bakewell and oreo. Five enormous slices cost us a tenner. Can we get a cheer for northern prices please?

We collapsed back in front of the fire when we got back, ready for a few solid hours napping, reading and some random yoga; finished off by a 5pm glass of rose. So flippin’ cosy.

Naturally our evening involved food and nattering. Seriously, all we do is chat and snack; thank the lord these girls just get it. I live for the fact that none of them would ever suggest we hit a club.

We had an epic cheeseboard, a game of dipsticks and some very entertaining conversation before Claire announced that we’d – DUN DUN DUN – run out of wine. I’m not sure if we felt like we were lacking in adventure after last year’s rescuing-a-sheep incident or we just really wanted more wine but we decided we were going to jump up and walk to the local pub pronto. Down the pitch-black road. In the pouring rain. With the very real possibility of being hit by cars.

We banged on the door of the pub after they had closed like wine-thirsty maniacs. The guy behind the bar – cheers Ben – thought it was hilarious. Particularly when Claire expressed her distaste for the lack of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. The owner was slightly less amused. Still, they let us buy two bottles and we disappeared off into the night to celebrate our victory. And eat cake.

After a very lazy brunch of avocado and eggs the next morning, and another reading/napping session, we piled back into the cars for a drive home through the beautiful, heather-covered peaks.