Eagle Stone near Curbar which is said to turn as the cock crows ... These endless recitations were brought to an abrupt halt by a rude comment from Scott -
"My cock 'ill be crowin' next Satdy nate! We'll av ta get on."
Simeon was a little disappointed, he had enjoyed these curious and uncanny tales. At the same time his back had been comforted by that narrow shaft of warm sunshine striking into the cool gorge. The stranger asked if they had come near Stanton Moor and seized the opportunity to further delay their departure by telling them the erotic legend of nine young girls and just one boy who had angered God by committing an obscene act on the Sabbath day!
The storyteller, now having full attention, warmed to his subject of nine pretty maidens long ago, illicitly stealing off onto the moor with the naughty lad who was also a fiddler -
"Disgusting really! Per'aps you're too young to be ... "
It had the desired effect. Howls of protest urged him to continue with his implied pornographic narrative -
"Oo it were awful! 'E fiddled like mad. An them sluts - no shame! They danced an pranced in a circle, faster and faster, tearing off clothes ... it were rate rude, very rude! It were rude, lewd and nude. I'll tell thee! They went too far ..."
"Yes? What then?" said Rex.
"Oo a can't say. Too embarrassin'."
"No itina! Tell us," said Dobba.
"Go on. What 'appened?" said Danny.
"Well. Ad betta tell ya. It were like this ... ya can see fa ya self wot 'appened if ya go up there on Stanton Moor. They're still there, where they stood, in that circle, all that time ago. An that dirty bugger wit fiddle - im as well. They were petrified."
"A? Oo scared 'em?" said Brian.
"No, a don't mean that. The Lord was furious. 'E turned 'em to stone! An it's a stone circle today - the Nine - Ladies - Stone - Circle.
Not exactly the ending they were hoping for. With curt cheerios and a few see yas, the six departed.
Moving through Miller's Dale they came across another old mill - Litton Mill, which was observed with passing interest and a total lack of knowledge. In less than a decade, a future Mr Hogg, in an alien land, thousands of miles from Derbyshire would be horrifying his students with historical accounts of dirty, unkempt, emaciated boys and girls, trapped, starved and suffering in this grey limestone prison set in such a beautiful ravine.
The pals were blissfully ignorant that more than a century and a half before, sadistic mill owner Ellis Needham took pleasure in seeing his brutal overseers punch, kick, beat and whip these poor wretches. Child-workers, younger than themselves, little better than slaves, started their toil at the demand of an unfeeling, clanging, factory bell in the grim darkness of five o'clock in the morning. In short breaks these ragged little children were fed a meal of rusty, half-putrid, fish-fed bacon and unpared turnips. Needham's pigs were better nourished and more kindly treated because those cruel days did not end for the small sad workers until eight in the evening.
It was six in the evening and miles short of their destination. They were late. Scott could see from his map that the ravine would meander on for more than a mile before they turned two hair-pin bends to scale the last steep, mile long ascent, up to Wormhill - a massive climb of 560ft out of the valley at the end of an already exhausting day. It had been difficult to move this motley group along. It seemed that every few yards some absorbing distraction would waylay one, or more boys bringing the convoy to a stop.
For example - after passing the
"My cock 'ill be crowin' next Satdy nate! We'll av ta get on."
Simeon was a little disappointed, he had enjoyed these curious and uncanny tales. At the same time his back had been comforted by that narrow shaft of warm sunshine striking into the cool gorge. The stranger asked if they had come near Stanton Moor and seized the opportunity to further delay their departure by telling them the erotic legend of nine young girls and just one boy who had angered God by committing an obscene act on the Sabbath day!
The storyteller, now having full attention, warmed to his subject of nine pretty maidens long ago, illicitly stealing off onto the moor with the naughty lad who was also a fiddler -
"Disgusting really! Per'aps you're too young to be ... "
It had the desired effect. Howls of protest urged him to continue with his implied pornographic narrative -
"Oo it were awful! 'E fiddled like mad. An them sluts - no shame! They danced an pranced in a circle, faster and faster, tearing off clothes ... it were rate rude, very rude! It were rude, lewd and nude. I'll tell thee! They went too far ..."
"Yes? What then?" said Rex.
"Oo a can't say. Too embarrassin'."
"No itina! Tell us," said Dobba.
"Go on. What 'appened?" said Danny.
"Well. Ad betta tell ya. It were like this ... ya can see fa ya self wot 'appened if ya go up there on Stanton Moor. They're still there, where they stood, in that circle, all that time ago. An that dirty bugger wit fiddle - im as well. They were petrified."
"A? Oo scared 'em?" said Brian.
"No, a don't mean that. The Lord was furious. 'E turned 'em to stone! An it's a stone circle today - the Nine - Ladies - Stone - Circle.
Not exactly the ending they were hoping for. With curt cheerios and a few see yas, the six departed.
Moving through Miller's Dale they came across another old mill - Litton Mill, which was observed with passing interest and a total lack of knowledge. In less than a decade, a future Mr Hogg, in an alien land, thousands of miles from Derbyshire would be horrifying his students with historical accounts of dirty, unkempt, emaciated boys and girls, trapped, starved and suffering in this grey limestone prison set in such a beautiful ravine.
The pals were blissfully ignorant that more than a century and a half before, sadistic mill owner Ellis Needham took pleasure in seeing his brutal overseers punch, kick, beat and whip these poor wretches. Child-workers, younger than themselves, little better than slaves, started their toil at the demand of an unfeeling, clanging, factory bell in the grim darkness of five o'clock in the morning. In short breaks these ragged little children were fed a meal of rusty, half-putrid, fish-fed bacon and unpared turnips. Needham's pigs were better nourished and more kindly treated because those cruel days did not end for the small sad workers until eight in the evening.
It was six in the evening and miles short of their destination. They were late. Scott could see from his map that the ravine would meander on for more than a mile before they turned two hair-pin bends to scale the last steep, mile long ascent, up to Wormhill - a massive climb of 560ft out of the valley at the end of an already exhausting day. It had been difficult to move this motley group along. It seemed that every few yards some absorbing distraction would waylay one, or more boys bringing the convoy to a stop.
For example - after passing the
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