It was vague and gently unplanned, but we found ourselves as hoped at Monsal Head overlooking the deep valley. The depth of the beauty matching the rise and fall of the valley sides - broad and welcoming at the basin, high sharp and deceptive at the top.

This was a place of views, of appreciation and of exploration. Tracing the slender path down from the head down to the feet where the water ran, past the tunnel, across the aqueduct, down the escarpment where the hawthorn grew wild freely and aplenty. Who knew, who knew indeed that fresh grown wooded green came in so many colours. As the clouds passed over and the shadows briefly bathed the trees so the health of this haven was evident and glorious.

There it was that we walked, noted and explored, a place to remember and a place to return - truly it would have been splendid to have seen this place with a steam and iron train - but too brief would that be. Instead we dreamt of that age and that era, recalling the Slow Train of Millers Dale and Tideswell.

So together we were walking in the sun, in the green valley, with the slender clatter of children playing - some but not too many - but our booked pub lunch called us away and our hearts reassured that we would return. For here there was health and beauty and views to satisfy visits, posters, pictures and memories - for return we would to Monsal Head and Monsal Dale.