A spontaneous summer microadventure with my son, another weekend came around faster than expected. With weather warnings flashing up for heavy thunderstorms on Saturday and Sunday, our carefully planned camping trip suddenly needed a reshuffle. So, we pulled the trigger and shifted our adventure forward. Friday night it was.
After work, bags were quickly packed. My son was home from school, and within the hour we had our gear, most of the food, and were literally sprinting out the door to catch the bus out of town.
A short ride later, we arrived at one of my favourite quick escapes: the Eric Byne Memorial Campsite. Tucked beneath Birchen Edge, it’s only accessible by foot and never fails to feel like a proper break from it all. Even better, we had the entire place to ourselves.
With the tent up and daylight still on our side, we wandered down for some chippy and a lemonade in the local pub garden before settling in for our own dinner back at camp. It was one of those rare, golden summer evenings: warm air, not a midge in sight, time to soak in the view, chatting over our food. Simple pleasures. Honestly does life get any better than that?
Despite the dire forecast, the rain never came overnight. We woke to dry ground, a warm breeze and still no midges. The weather gods had clearly decided to smile on us.
Breakfast was quick, porridge pots and a hot drink, before we packed up camp with one eye on the approaching rain on the met office rain radar. We just got the last peg pulled when the first drops began to fall.
With everything quickly stashed in our bags, we set off. The aim was to make it to Rowsley South before 3 p.m. to catch the heritage train to Matlock and from there, our bus home. The route would take us over Dobb Edge, through Chatsworth Park and along the River Derwent.
Crossing the main road, we made our way up toward Dobb Edge. A favourite stretch for me, with sweeping views across Baslow and the hills beyond. The air was still and a light mist clung to the valleys. The parkland below was near empty and it gave the morning a quietly magical atmosphere.
We reached Chatsworth Stables just as the heavens opened. Thankfully, the big umbrellas in the courtyard provided perfect shelter for a warming drink and a chance to regroup. From there, we pushed on into the now steady rain, crossing the bridge past the old mill and following the Derwent downstream on a tree-lined path that led us into Beeley.
Even though many of the trees had been recently planted, the route followed an old trackway that appears on 19th-century maps. It wasn’t hard to imagine the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire once taking a carriage ride along the same lane.
We paused at Beeley Church for sandwiches and a quick look inside. The cool, calm quiet made it a perfect spot to catch our breath. Then we continued on, following Smelting Mill Brook, before a short stretch along the road brought us to the Derbyshire Wildlife Trust area at Peak Village. This section has really blossomed into a beautiful green space. From there, we picked up a path that wound through woodland and along the river, guiding us toward Rowsley South.
By this point, the weather had taken a definite turn. Rain was falling harder, the bags were heavy, and I’ll admit I was ready to be somewhere dry. But that final stretch, though tough, still had its moments: woodland quiet, riverside glimpses and the promise of a train at the end.
And sure enough, we arrived just in time for hot drinks in the Peak Rail café, then boarded the heritage diesel train. A British Rail classic from the late 1950s. My son and I nabbed front seats, watching the driver release the brake and gently power us out of the station. It was strangely mesmerising, the whirr of the old engine and the click of gears taking us back in time.
That is, until we reached Darley Dale, where a minor hitch with a crossing gate gave us an unscheduled pause. For a moment, we wondered if we’d be stuck but reinforcements soon arrived from Rowsley, the gates were fixed and we were back on track, cruising into Matlock with just enough time for the essential photo by the train.
Then it was across town to the bus stop, and back home again.
All in all, we beat the storms, avoided the crowds and squeezed in another magical night under canvas, exploring paths we hadn’t walked before and building memories for the long term.
It wasn’t epic in distance. But it was everything I love about these microadventures: simple, close to home and quietly restorative. Proof again that sometimes, all it takes is a free evening, some public transport and a bit of weather watching.